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FJi     ""ERNITY 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


'  Brother,  brother,  on  some  far  shore 

Hast  thou  a  dty,  is  there  a  door 

That  knows  thy  footfall.  Wandering  One?** 

Murray's  Electra  of  Euripides 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1919 


ENCLISH  1 
COPTUGBT,   1909,  BY 

Cbajllss  Scribnsr's  SoHt 


c         •         •      \ 

*  .  • 


TO 
J.  M.  BARRIE 


FRATERNITY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SHADOW 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  of  April,  190-,  a 
billowy  sea  of  little  broken  clouds  crowned  the 
thin  air  above  High  Street,  Kensington.  This  soft 
tumult  of  vapours,  covering  nearly  all  the  firmament, 
was  in  onslaught  round  a  patch  of  blue  sky,  shaped 
somewhat  like  a  star,  which  still  gleamed — a  single 
gentian  flower  amongst  innumerable  grass.  Each 
of  these  small  clouds  seemed  fitted  with  a  pair  of 
unseen  wings,  and,  as  insects  flight  on  their  too  con- 
stant journeys,  they  were  setting  forth  all  ways  round 
this  starry  blossom  which  burned  so  clear  with  the 
colour  of  its  far  fixity.  On  one  side  they  were  massed 
in  fleecy  congeries,  so  crowding  each  other  that  no 
edge  or  outline  was  preserved;  on  the  other,  higher, 
stronger,  emergent  from  their  fellow-clouds,  they 
seemed  leading  the  attack  on  that  surviving  gleam 
of  the  ineffable.  Infinite  was  the  variety  of  those 
million  separate  vapours,  infinite  the  unchanging 
unity  of  that  fixed  blue  star. 

Down  in  the  street  beneath  this  eternal  warring  of 
the  various  soft-winged  clouds  on  the  unmisted  ether, 
men,  women,  children,  and  their  familiars — horses, 

I 


dogs,  and  cats — were  pursumg  their  occupations  with 
the  sweet  zest  of  the  Spring.  They  streamed  along, 
and  the  noise  of  their  frequenting  rose  in  an  unbroken 
roarr'I,  I— I,  I!" 

The  crowd  was  perhaps  thickest  outside  the  prem- 
ises of  Messrs.  Rose  and  Thorn.  Every  kind  of  being, 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  passed  in  front  of  the 
hundred  doors  of  this  establishment;  and  before  the 
costume  window  a  rather  tall,  slight,  graceful  woman 
stood  thinking:  **It  really  is  gentian  blue!  But  I 
don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  buy  it,  with  all  this 
distress  about!*' 

Her  eyes,  which  were  greenish-grey,  and  often 
ironical  lest  they  should  reveal  her  soul,  seemed 
probing  a  blue  gown  displayed  in  that  window,  to 
the  very  heart  of  its  desirability. 

**And  suppose  Stephen  doesn't  like  me  in  it!*' 
This  doubt  set  her  gloved  fingers  pleating  the  bosom 
of  her  frock.  Into  that  little  pleat  she  folded  the 
essence  of  herself,  the  wish  to  have  and  the  fear  of 
having,  the  wish  to  be  and  the  fear  of  being,  and  her 
veil,  falling  from  the  edge  of  her  hat,  three  inches 
from  her  face,  shrouded  witfi  its  tissue  her  half- 
decided  little  features,  her  rather  too  high  cheek- 
bones, her  cheeks  that  were  slightly  hollowed,  as 
though  Time  had  kissed  them  just  a  bit  too  much. 

The  old  man,  with  a  long  face,  eyes  rimmed  like  a 
parrot's,  and  discoloured  nose,  who,  so  long  as  he  did 
not  sit  down,  was  permitted  to  frequent  the  pavement 
just  there  and  sell  the  Westminster  Gazette,  marked 
her,  and  took. his  empty  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 

It  was  his  business  to  know  all  the  passers-by, 
and  his  pleasure  too;  his  mind  was  thus  distracted 


The  fjhadow  3 

from  the  condition  of  his  feet.  He  knew  this  par- 
ticular lady  with  the  delicate  face,  and  found  her 
puzzling;  she  sometimes  bought  the  paper  which 
Fate  condemned  him,  against  his  politics,  to  sell. 
The  Tory  journals  were  undoubtedly  those  which 
her  class  of  person  ought  to  purchase.  He  knew 
a  lady  when  he  saw  one.  In  fact,  before  Life  threw 
him  into  the  streets,  by  giving  him  a  disease  in  curing 
which  his  savings  had  disappeared,  he  had  been  a 
butler,  and  for  the  gentry  had  a  respect  as  incurable 
as  was  his  distrust  of  **all  that  class  of  people'*  who 
bought  their  things  at  ''these  'ere  large  establish- 
ments, **  and  attended  ** these  'ere  subscription  dances 
at  the  Town  'AH  over  there."  He  watched  her  with 
special  interest,  not,  indeed,  attempting  to  attract 
attention,  though  conscious  in  every  fibre  that  he 
had  only  sold  five  copies  of  his  early  issues.  And 
he  was  sorry  and  surprised  when  she  passed  from  his 
sight  through  one  of  the  hundred  doors. 

The  thought  which  spurred  her  into  Messrs.  Rose 
and  Thorn's  was  this:  **I  am  thirty-eight;  I  have 
a  daughter  of  seventeen!  I  cannot  afford  to  lose 
my  husband's  admiration.  The  time  is  on  me  when 
I  really  must  make  myself  look  nice!" 

Before  a  long  mirror,  in  whose  bright  pool  there 
yearly  bathed  hundreds  of  women's  bodies,  divested 
of  skirts  and  bodices,  whose  unruffled  surface  re- 
flected daily  a  dozen  women's  souls  divested  of  every- 
thing, her  eyes  became  as  bright  as  steel;  but  having 
ascertained  the  need  of  taking  two  inches  off  the 
chest  of  the  gentian  frock,  one  off  its  waist,  three  off 
its  hips,  and  of  adding  one  to  its  skirt,  they  clouded 
again  with  doubt,  as  though   prepared  to  fly  from 


4  FratcMity 

the  decision  she  had  come  to.  Resuming  her  bodice, 
she  asked: 

*'When  could  you  let  me  have  it?" 

**At  the  end  of  the  week,  madam." 

"Not  till  then?" 

**We  are  very  pressed,  madam." 

**0h,  but  you  must  let  me  have  it  by  Thursday 
at  the  latest,  please. " 

The  fitter  sighed:  '*I  will  do  my  best." 

"I  shall  rely  on  you.  Mrs.  Stephen  Dallison, 
76,  The  Old  Square." 

Going  downstairs  she  thought:  **That  poor  girl 
looked  very  tired ;  it  *s  a  shame  they  give  them  such 
long  hours!"  and  she  passed  into  the  street. 

A  voice  said  timidly  behind  her:  '* Westminister ^ 
marm?" 

'* That's  the  poor  old  creature,"  thought  Cecilia 
Dallison,    **  whose   nose  is   so  unpleasant.     I    don't 

really  think  I "  and  she  felt  for  a  penny  in  her 

little  bag.  Standing  beside  the  '*poor  old  creature" 
was  a  woman  clothed  in  worn  but  neat  black 
clothes  and  an  ancient  toque  that  had  once  known 
a  better  head.  The  wan  remains  of  a  little  bit 
of  fur  lay  round  her  throat.  She  had  a  thin 
face,  not  without  refinement,  mild,  very  clear 
brown  eyes,  and  a  twist  of  smooth  black  hair. 
Beside  her  was  a  skimpy  little  boy,  and  in  her 
arms  a  baby.  Mrs.  Dallison  held  out  twopence 
for  the  paper,  but  it  was  at  the  woman  that  she 
looked. 

**0h,  Mrs.  Hughs,"  she  said,  ** we've  been  ex- 
pecting you  to  hem  the  curtains!" 

The  woman  slightly  pressed  the  baby. 


The  Shadow  S 

'*I  am  very  sorry,  ma*am.  I  knew  I  was  expected, 
but  I  've  had  such  trouble.  *' 

Cecilia  winced.     **0h,  really?** 

"Yes,  m*m;  it  *s  my  husband." 

"Oh,  dear!'*  Cecilia  murmured.  "But  why  did  n't 
you  come  to  us?** 

"I  did  n't  feel  up  to  it,  ma* am;  I  did  n't  really ** 

A  tear  ran  down  her  cheek,  and  was  caught  in  a 
furrow  near  the  mouth. 

Mrs.  Dallison  said  hurriedly:  "Yes,  yes;  I  *m  very 
sorry.*' 

"This  old  gentleman,  Mr.  Creed,  lives  in  the  same 
house  with  us,  and  he  is  going  to  speak  to  my 
husband.*' 

The  old  man  wagged  his  head  on  its  lean  stalk  of 
neck. 

"He  ought  to  know  better  than  be'ave  'imself  so 
disrespectable,**  he  said. 

Cecilia  looked  at  him,  and  murmured:  "I  hope  he 
won*t  turn  on  you  I'' 

The  old  man  shuffled  his  feet. 

"I  likes  to  live  at  peace  with  everybody.  I  shall 
have  the  police  to  *im  if  he  misdemeans  hisself  with 
me!  .  .  .  Westminister,  sir?*'  And,  screening  his 
mouth  from  Mrs.  Dallison,  he  added  in  a  loud  whisper : 
"Execution  of  the  Shoreditch  murderer!" 

Cecilia  felt  suddenly  as  though  the  world  were  listen- 
ing to  her  conversation  with  these  two  rather  seedy 
p<^rsons. 

"I  don*t  really  know  what  I  can  do  for  you,  Mrs. 
Hughs.  I  'U  speak  to  Mr.  Dallison,  and  to  Mr.  Hilary 
too." 

"Yes,  ma'am;  thank  you,  ma'am." 


6  Fraternity 

With  a  smile  that  seemed  to  deprecate  its  own 
appearance,  Cecilia  grasped  her  skirts  and  crossed 
the  road.  *'I  hope  I  was  n*t  unsympathetic/'  she 
thought,  looking  back  at  the  three  figures  on  the 
edge  of  the  pavement — the  old  man  with  his  papers, 
and  his  discoloured  nose  thrust  upwards  under  iron- 
rimmed  spectacles;  the  seamstress  in  her  black  dress; 
the  skimpy  little  boy.  Neither  speaking  nor  moving, 
they  were  looking  out  before  them  at  the  trafl&c ;  and 
something  in  Cecilia  revolted  at  this  sight.  It  was 
lifeless,  hopeless,  unaesthetic. 

**  What  can  one  do,'*  she  thought,  *'for  women  like 
Mrs.  Hughs,  who  always  look  like  that?  -^And  that 
poor  old  man!  I  suppose  I  ought  n't  to  have  bought 
that  dress,  but  Stephen  is  tired  of  this." 

She  turned  out  of  the  main  street  into  a  road  pre- 
served from  commoner  forms  of  trafl&c,  and  stopped  at 
a  long  low  house  half  hidden  behind  the  trees  of  its 
front  garden. 

It  was  the  residence  of  Hilary  Dallison,  her  hus- 
band's brother,  and  himself  the  husband  of  Bianca, 
her  own  sister. 

The  queer  conceit  came  to  Cecilia  that  it  resembled 
Hilary.  Its  look  was  kindly  and  uncertain ;  its  colour 
a  palish  tan;  the  eyebrows  of  its  windows  rather 
straight  than  arched,  and  those  deep-set  eyes,  the 
windows,  twinkled  hospitably;  it  had,  as  it  were,  a 
sparse  moustache  and  beard  of  creepers,  and  dark 
marks  here  and  there,  like  the  lines  and  shadows  ^n 
the  faces  of  those  who  think  too  much.  Beside  it, 
and  apart,  though  connected  by  a  passage,  a  studio 
stood,  and  about  that  studio — of  white  rough-cast, 
with  a  black  oak  door,  and  peacock-blue  paint — was 


The  Shadow  7 

something  a  little  hard  and  fugitive,  well  suited  to 
Bianca,  who  used  it,  indeed,  to  paint  in.  It  seemed 
to  stand,  with  its  eyes  on  the  house,  shrinking  defiantly 
from  too  close  company,  as  though  it  could  not  entirely 
give  itself  to  anything.  Cecilia,  who  often  worried 
over  the  relations  between  her  sister  and  her  brother- 
in-law,  suddenly  felt  how  fitting  and  symbolical 
this  was. 

But,  mistrusting  inspirations,  which,  experience 
told  her,  committed  one  too  much,  she  walked  quickly 
up  the  stone-flagged  pathway  to  the  door.  Lying  in 
the  porch  was  a  little  moonlight-coloured  lady  bulldog, 
of  toy  breed,  who  gazed  up  with  eyes  like  agates, 
delicately  waving  her  bell-rope  tail,  as  it  was  her 
habit  to  do  towards  everyone,  for  she  had  been  handed 
down  clearer  and  paler  with  each  generation,  till  she 
had  at  last  lost  all  the  peculiar  virtues  of  dogs  that 
bait  the  bull. 

Speaking  the  word  ** Miranda!"  Mrs.  Stephen 
Dallison  tried  to  pat  this  daughter  of  the  house.  The 
little  bulldog  withdrew  from  her  caress,  being  also 
unaccustomed  to  commit  herself.  .  .  . 

Mondays  were  Bianca's  **days,''  and  Cecilia  made 
her  way  towards  the  studio.  It  was  a  large  high 
room,  full  of  people. 

Motionless,  by  himself,  close  to  the  door,  stood  an  old 
maja,  very  thin  and  rather  bent,  with  silvery  hair,  and  a 
thin  silvery  beard  grasped  in  his  transparent  fingers. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  smoke-grey  cottage  tweed, 
which  smelt  of  peat,  and  an  Oxford  shirt,  whose  collar, 
ceasing  prematurely,  exposed  a  lean  brown  neck;  his 
iVousers,  too,  ended  very  soon,  and  showed  light  socks. 
J  n  his  attitude  there  was  something  suggestive  of  the 


8  Fraternity 

patience  and  determination  of  a  mule.  At  Cecilia's 
approach  he  raised  his  eyes.  It  was  at  once  apparent 
why,  in  so  full  a  room,  he  was  standing  alone.  Those 
blue  eyes  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  utter  a 
prophetic  statement. 

"They  have  been  speaking  to  me  of  an  execution/' 
he  said. 

Cecilia  made  a  nervous  movement. 

"Yes,  Father?" 

"To  take  life,"  went  on  the  old  man  in  a  voice 
which,  though  charged  with  strong  emotion,  seemed 
to  be  speaking  to  itself,  "was  the  chief  mark  of  the 
insensate  barbarism  still  prevailing  in  those  days. 
It  sprang  from  that  most  irreligious  fetish,  the  belief 
in  the  permanence  of  the  individual  ego  after  death. 
From  the  worship  of  that  fetish  had  come  all  the 
sorrows  of  the  human  race." 

Cecilia,  with  an  involuntary  quiver  of  her  little  bag, 
said: 

"Father,  how  can  you?" 

"They  did  not  stop  to  love  each  other  in  this  life; 
they  were  so  sure  they  had  all  eternity  to  do  it  in. 
The  doctrine  was  an  invention  to  enable  men  to  act 
like  dogs  with  clear  consciences.  Love  could  never 
come  to  full  fruition  till  it  was  destroyed." 

Cecilia  looked  hastily  round;  no  one  had  heard. 
She  moved  a  little  sideways,  and  became  merged  in 
another  group.  Her  father's  lips  continued  moving. 
He  had  resumed  the  patient  attitude  that  so  slightly 
suggested  mules.  A  voice  behind  her  said:  ''I  do 
think  your  father  is  such  an  interseting  man,  Mrs. 
Dallison." 

Cecilia  turned  and  saw  a  woman  of  middle  heigh  t, 

\ 


The  Shadow  9 

with  her  hair  done  in  the  early  Italian  fashion,  and 
very  small  dark,  lively  eyes,  which  looked  as  though 
her  love  of  living  would  keep  her  busy  each  minute 
of  her  day  and  all  the  minutes  that  she  could  occupy 
of  everybody  else*s  days. 

**Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace?  Oh!  how  do  you 
do?  I  Ve  been  meaning  to  come  and  see  you  for 
quite  a  long  time,  but  I  know  you  're  always  so  busy." 

With  doubting  eyes,  half  friendly  and  half  defensive, 
as  though  chaffing  to  prevent  herself  from  being 
chaffed,  Cecilia  looked  at  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace, 
whom  she  had  met  several  times  at  Bianca's  house. 
The  widow  of  a  somewhat  famous  connoisseur,  she 
was  now  secretary  of  the  League  for  Educating  Or- 
phans who  have  Lost  both  Parents,  vice-president  of 
the  Forlorn  Hope  for  Maids  in  Peril,  and  treasurer 
to  Thursday  Hops  for  Working  Girls.  She  seemed 
to  know  every  man  and  woman  who  was  worth 
knowing,  and  some  besides;  to  see  all  picture-shows; 
to  hear  every  new  musician ;  and  attend  the  opening 
performance  of  every  play.  With  regard  to  literature, 
she  would  say  that  authors  bored  her;  but  she  was 
always  doing  them  good  turns,  inviting  them  to  meet 
their  critics  or  editors,  and  sometimes — though  this 
was  not  generally  known — pulling  them  out  of  the 
holes  they  were  prone  to  get  into  by  lending  them 
a  sum  of  money — after  which,  as  she  would  plaintively 
remark,  she  rarely  saw  them  more. 

She  had  a  peculiar  spiritual  significance  to  Mrs. 
Stephen  Dallison,  being  just  on  the  border-line  be- 
tween those  of  Bianca's  friends  whom  Cecilia  did  not 
wish  and  those  whom  she  did  wish  to  come  to  her  -^^-'^ 
bouse,  for  Stephen,  a  barrister  in  an  officii'  ^^^ 


lo  Fraternity 

had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  Since  Hilary 
wrote  books  and  was  a  poet,  and  Bianca  painted, 
their  friends  would  naturally  be  either  interesting 
or  queer;  and  though  for  Stephen's  sake  it  was  im- 
portant to  establish  which  was  which,  they  were  so 
very  often  both.  Such  people  stimulated,  taken  in 
small  doses,  but  neither  on  her  husband's  account 
nor  on  her  daughter's  did  Cecilia  desire  that  they 
should  come  to  her  in  swarms.  Her  attitude  of 
mind  towards  them  was,  in  fact,  similar — a  sort  of 
pleasurable  dread — ^to  that  in  which  she  purchased 
the  Westminster  Gazette  to  feel  the  pulse  of  social 
progress. 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace's  dark  little  eyes 
twinkled. 

**I  hear  that  Mr.  Stone — that  is  your  father's 
name,  I  think — is  writing  a  book  which  will  create 
quite  a  sensation  when  it  comes  out." 

Cecilia  bit  her  lips.  **I  hope  it  never  will  come 
out,"  she  was  on  the  point  of  saying. 

"What  will  it  be  called?"  asked  Mrs.  Tallents 
Smallpeace.  *'I  gather  that  it 's  a  book  of  Universal 
Brotherhood.     That 's  so  nice!" 

Cecilia  made  a  movement  of  annoyance.  "Wlio 
told  you?" 

*'Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace,  **I  do  think 
your  sister  gets  such  attractive  people  at  her  At 
Homes.     They  all  take  such  interest  in  things. " 

A  little  surprised  at  herself,  Cecilia  answered: 
**Too  much  for  me!" 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  smiled.  **I  mean  in  art 
and  social  questions.  Surely  one  can't  be  too  in- 
terested in  them?" 


The  Shadow  ii 

Cecilia  said  rather  hastily : 

'*0h  no,  of  course  not."  And  both  ladies  looked 
around  them.  A  buzz  of  conversation  fell  on  Cecilia's 
ears. 

**Have  you  seen  the  *  Aftermath'?  It  's  really 
quite  wonderful  1 " 

** Poor  old  chap!  he 's  so  rococo.  .  .  ." 

"There  's  a  new  man.  .  .  .*' 

"She's  very  sympathetic.  .  .  ." 

"But  the  condition  of  the  poor.  .  .  ." 

"Is  that   Mr.   Balladyce?     Oh,   really.  .  .  /* 

"It  gives  you  such  a  feeling  of  life.  .  .  ." 

"Bourgeois!  .  .  .** 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  broke 
through:  "But  do  please  tell  me  who  is  that  young 
girl  with  the  young  man  looking  at  the  picture  over 
there.     She  's  quite  charming!" 

Cecilia's  cheeks  went  a  very  pretty  pink. 

"Oh,  that 's  my  little  daughter." 

"Really!  Have  you  a  daughter  as  big  as  that? 
Why,  she  must  be  seventeen!" 

"Nearly  eighteen!" 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"Thyme,"  said  Cecilia,  with  a  little  smile.  She 
felt  that  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  was  about  to  say: 
How  charming!" 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  saw  her  smile  and  paused. 
Who  is  the  young  man  with  her?" 

"My  nephew,  Martin  Stone." 

"The  son  of  your  brother  who  was  killed  with  his 
wife  in  that  dreadful  Alpine  accident?  He  looks  a 
very  decided  sort  of  young  man.  He  's  got  that  new 
look.     What  is  he?" 


«( 


<c 


12  Fraternity 

**  He  's  very  nearly  a  doctor.  I  never  know  whether 
he  's  quite  finished  or  not." 

**I  thought  perhaps  he  might  have  something  to 
do  with  Art/' 

**0h  no,  he  despises  Art," 

"And  does  your  daughter  despise  it,  too?'* 

"No;  she  's  studying  it.*' 

"Oh,  really!  How  interesting!  I  do  think  the 
rising  generation  amusing,  don't  you?  They  're 
so  independent." 

Cecilia  looked  uneasily  at  the  rising  generation. 
They  were  standing  side  by  side  before  the  picture, 
curiously  observant  and  detached,  exchanging  short 
remarks  and  glances.  They  seemed  to  watch  all  these 
circling,  chatting,  bending,  smiling  people  with  a  sort 
of  youthful,  matter-of-fact,  half-hostile  curiosity. 
The  young  man  had  a  pale  face,  clean-shaven,  with 
a  strong  jaw,  a  long,  straight  nose,  a  rather  bumpy 
forehead  which  did  not  recede,  and  clear  grey  eyes. 
His  sarcastic  lips  were  firm  and  quick,  and  he 
looked  at  people  with  disconcerting  straight- 
ness.  The  young  girl  wore  a  blue-green  frock. 
Her  face  was  charming,  with  eager,  hazel-grey 
eyes,  a  bright  colour,  and  fluffy  hair  the  colour 
of  ripe  nuts. 

"That 's  your  sister's  picture,  The  Shadow y  they  're 
looking  at,  isn't  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Tallents  Small- 
peace.  "I  remember  seeing  it  on  Christmas  Day, 
and  the  little  model  who  was  sitting  for  it — an 
attractive  type!  Your  brother-in-law  told  me  how 
interested  you  all  were  in  her.  Quite  a  romantic 
story,  was  n't  it,  about  her  fainting  from  want  of  food 
when  she  first  came  to  sit?" 


The  Shadow  13 

Cecilia  murmured  something.  Her  hands  were 
moving  nervously ;  she  looked  ill  at  ease. 

These  signs  passed  unperceived  by  Mrs.  Tallents 
Smallpeace,  whose  eyes  were  busy. 

**In  the  F.H.M.P.,  of  course,  I  see  a  lot  of  young 
girls  placed  in  delicate  positions,  just  on  the  borders, 
don't  you  know?  You  should  really  join  the  F.H. 
M.P.,  Mrs.  Dallison.  It 's  a  first-rate  thing — ^most 
absorbing  work." 

The  doubting  deepened  in  Cecilia's  eyes. 

**0h,  it  must  be!"  she  said.     *'I  Ve  so  little  time.*' 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  went  on  at  once. 

**  Don't  you  think  that  we  live  in  the  most  interest* 
ing  days?  There  are  such  a  lot  of  movements  going 
on.  It 's  quite  exciting.  We  all  feel  that  we  can't 
shut  our  eyes  any  longer  to  social  questions.  I  mean 
the  condition  of  the  people  alone  is  enough  to  give 
one  nightmare!" 

**  Yes,  yes,"  said  Cecilia;  **it  is  dreadful,  of  course." 

**  Politicians  and  officials  are  so  hopeless,  one  can't 
look  for  anything  from  them." 

Cecilia  drew  herself  up.  ''Oh,  do  you  think  so?" 
she  said. 

"I  was  just  talking  to  Mr.  Balladyce.  He  says 
that  Art  and  Literature  must  be  put  on  a  new  basis 
altogether." 

"Yes,"  said  Cecilia;  ** really?  Is  he  that  funny 
little  man?" 

**I  think  he's  so  monstrously  clever." 

Cecilia  answered  quickly:  **I  know — I  know.  Of 
course,  something  must  be  done." 

'•Yes,"  said  Mrs.Tallents  Smallpeace  absently,  **I 
think  we  all  ieel  that.     Oh,  do  tell  me!     I  've  been 


14  Fraternity 

talking  to  such  a  delightful  person — just  the  type  you 
see  when  you  go  into  the  City — thousands  of  them, 
all  in  such  good  black  coats.  It 's  so  unusual  to 
really  meet  one  nowadays ;  and  they  *re  so  refreshing, 
they  have  such  nice  simple  views.  There  he  is, 
standing  just  behind  your  sister.'* 

Cecilia  by  a  nervous  gesture  indicated  that  she 
recognised  the  personality  alluded  to.  **0h  yes," 
she  said;  *'Mr.  Purcey.  I  don't  know  why  he  comes 
to  see  us.'* 

**I  think  he's  so  delicious!"  said  Mrs.  Tallents 
Smallpeace  dreamily.  Her  little  dark  eyes,  like  bees, 
had  flown  to  sip  honey  from  the  flower  in  question — 
a  man  of  broad  build  and  medium  height,  dressed 
with  accuracy,  who  seemed  just  a  little  out  of  his 
proper  bed.  His  mustachioed  mouth  wore  a  set 
smile;  his  cheerful  face  was  rather  red,  with  a  forehead 
of  ijo  extravagant  height  or  breadth,  and  a  conspicuous 
jaw;  his  hair  was  thick  and  light  in  colour,  and  his 
eyes  were  small,  grey,  and  shrewd.  He  was  looking 
at  a  picture. 

**He's  so  delightfully  unconscious,'*  murmured 
Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace.  **He  did  n't  even  seem  to 
know  that  there  was  a  problem  of  the  lower  classes." 

**Did  he  tell  you  that  he  had  a  picture?"  asked 
Cecilia  gloomily. 

**0h  yes,  by  Harpignies,  with  the  accent  on  the 
*pig.'  It 's  worth  three  times  what  he  gave  for  it. 
It 's  so  nice  to  be  made  to  feel  that  there  is  still  all 
that  mass  of  people  just  simply  measuring  everything 
by  what  they  gave  for  it." 

**And  did  he  tell  you  my  grandfather  Carfax's 
dictum  in  the  Banstock  case?"  muttered  Cecilia. 


The  Shadow  15 

"Oh  yes:  *The  man  who  does  not  know  his  own 
mind  should  be  made  an  Irishman  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment.'    He  said  it  was  so  awfully  good.** 

**He  would,'*  replied  Cecilia. 

'*He  seems  to  depress  you,  rather!** 

**0h  no;  I  believe  he  *s  quite  a  nice  sort  of  person. 
One  can't  be  rude  to  him;  he  really  did  what  he 
thought  a  very  kind  thing  to  my  father.  That 's 
how  we  came  to  know  him.  Only  it  *s  rather  try- 
ing when  he  will  come  to  call  regularly.  He  gets  a 
little  on  one  's  nerves.'* 

**  Ah,  that 's  just  what  I  feel  is  so  jolly  about  him; 
no  one  would  ever  get  on  his  nerves.  I  do  think 
we  've  got  too  many  nerves,  don't  you?  Here  *s 
your  brother-in-law.  He 's  such  an  uncommon- 
looking  man ;  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  him  about 
that  little  model.     A  country  girl,  wasn't  she?" 

She  had  turned  her  head  towards  a  tall  man  with  a 
very  slight  stoop  and  a  brown,  thin,  bearded  face,  who 
was  approaching  from  the  door.  She  did  not  see 
that  Cecilia  had  flushed,  and  was  looking  at  her  almost 
angrily.  The  tall  thin  man  put  his  hand  on  Cecilia's 
arm,  saying  gently:  ** Hallo,  Cis!     Stephen  here  yet? '* 

Cecilia  shook  her  head. 

**You  know  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace,  Hilary?" 

The  tall  man  bowed.  His  hazel-coloured  eyes  were 
shy,  gentle,  and  deep-set;  his  eyebrows,  hardly  ever 
still,  gave  him  a  look  of  austere  whimsicality.  His 
dark-brown  hair  was  very  lightly  touched  with  grey, 
and  a  frequent  kindly  smile  played  on  his  lips.  His 
unmannerismed  manner  was  quiet  to  the  point  of 
extinction.  He  had  long,  thin,  brown  hands,  and 
nothing  peculiar  about  his  dress. 


1 6  Fraternity 

** I  'II  leave  you  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace," 
Cecilia  said. 

A  knot  of  people  round  Mr.  Balladyce  prevented  her 
from  moving  far,  however,  and  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Smallpeace  travelled  to  her  ears. 

'*I  was  talking  about  that  little  model.  It  was 
so  good  of  you  to  take  such  interest  in  the  girl.  I 
wondered  whether  we  could  do  anything  for  her.'* 

Cecilia's  hearing  was  too  excellent  to  miss  the  tone 
of  Hilary's  reply: 

"Oh,  thank  you;  I  don't  think  so." 

"I  fancied  perhaps  you  might  feel  that  our  Society 
— hers  is  an  unsatisfactory  profession  for  young 
girls!" 

Cecilia  saw  the  back  of  Hilary's  neck  turn  red. 
She  turned  her  head  away. 

*'0f  course,  there  are  many  very  nice  models  in- 
deed," said  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace. 
**3  don't  mean  that  they  are  necessarily  at  all — if 
they  're  girls  of  strong  character ;  and  especially 
if  they  don't  sit  for  the — the  altogether," 

Hilary's  dry,  staccato  answer  came  to  Cecilia's 
ears:  ** Thank  you;  it 's  very  kind  of  you." 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  it  's  not  necessary.  Your  wife's 
picture  was  so  clever,  Mr.  Dallison — such  an  inter- 
esting t3rpe. " 

Without  intention  Cecilia  found  herself  before 
that  picture.  It  stood  with  its  face  a  little  turned 
towards  the  wall,  as  though  somewhat  in  disgrace, 
portraying  the  full-length  figure  of  a  girl  standing 
in  deep  shadow,  with  her  arms  half  outstretched, 
as  if  asking  for  something.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Cecilia,  and  through  her  parted  lips  breath  almost 


The  Shadow  17 

seemed  to  come.  The  only  colour  in  the  picture  was 
the  pale  blue  of  those  eyes,  the  pallid  red  of  those 
parted  lips,  the  still  paler  brown  of  the  hair;  the 
rest  was  shadow.  In  the  foreground  light  was 
falling  as  though  from  a  street-lamp. 

Cecilia  thought:  **That  girl's  eyes  and  mouth 
haunt  me.  Whatever  made  Bianca  choose  such 
a  subject?    It  is  clever,  of  course — for  her.'* 


lA'. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  FAMILY  DISCUSSION 

THE  marriage  of  Sylvanus  Stone,  Professor  of  the 
Natural  Sciences,  to  Anne,  daughter  of  Mr. 
Justice  Carfax,  of  the  well-known  county  family 
— ^the  Carfaxes  of  Spring  Deans,  Hants — was 
recorded  in  the  sixties.  The  baptisms  of  Martin, 
Cecilia,  and  Bianca,  son  and  daughters  of  Sylvanus 
and  Anne  Stone,  were  to  be  discovered  registered 
in  Kensington  in  the  three  consecutive  years  following 
as  though  some  single-minded  person  had  been  con- 
nected with  their  births.  After  this  the  baptisms 
of  no  more  offspring  were  to  be  found  anywhere, 
as  if  that  single  mind  had  encountered  opposition. 
But  in  the  eighties  there  was  noted  in  the  register  of 
the  same  church  the  burial  of  **Anne,  nee  Carfax, 
wife  of  Sylvanus  Stone.''  In  that  ''nie  Carfax" 
there  was,  to  those  who  knew,  something  more  than 
met  the  eye.  It  summed  up  the  mother  of  Cecilia 
and  Bianca,  and  in  more  subtle  fashion,  Cecilia  and 
Bianca,  too.  It  summed  up  that  fugitive,  barricading 
look  in  their  bright  eyes,  which,  though  spoken  of  in 
the  family  as  "the  Carfax  eyes,''  were  in  reality  far 
from  coming  from  old  Mr.  Justice  Carfax.  They 
had  been  his  wife's  in  turn,  and  had  much  annoyed 
a  man  of  his  decided  character.  He  himself  had 
always  known  his  mind,  and  had  let  others  know  it» 


A  Family  Discussion  19 

too ;  reminding  his  wife  that  she  was  an  impracticable 
woman,  who  knew  not  her  own  mind;  and  devoting 
his  lawful  gains  to  securing  the  future  of  his  progeny. 
It  would  have  disturbed  him  if  he  had  lived  to  see 
his  grand-daughters  and  their  times.  Like  so  many- 
able  men  of  his  generation,  far-seeing  enough  in 
practical  affairs,  he  had  never  considered  the  possi- 
bility that  the  descendants  of  those  who,  like  himself, 
had  laid  up  treasure  for  their  children's  children,  might 
acquire  the  quality  of  taking  time,  balancing  pros 
and  cons,  looking  ahead,  and  not  putting  one  foot 
down  before  picking  the  other  up.  He  had  not 
foreseen,  indeed,  that  to  wobble  might  become 
an  art,  in  order  that,  before  an3rthing  was  done 
people  might  know  the  full  necessity  for  doing 
something,  and  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  do — 
indeed  foolish  to  attempt  to  do — that  which  would 
fully  meet  the  case.  He,  who  had  been  a  man  oi 
action  all  his  life,  had  not  perceived  how  it  would 
grow  to  be  matter  of  common  instinct  that  to  act 
was  to  commit  oneself,  and  that,  while  what  one  had 
was  not  precisely  what  one  wanted,  what  one  had 
not  (if  one  had  it)  would  be  as  bad.  He  had 
never  been  self-conscious  —  it  was  not  the  custom 
of  his  generation  —  and,  having  but  little  imagina- 
tion, had  never  suspected  that  he  was  laying  up 
that  quality  for  his  descendants,  together  with 
a  competence  that  secured  them  a  comfortable 
leisure. 

Of  all  the  persons  in  his  grand-daughter's  studio 
that  afternoon  that  stray  sheep  Mr.  Purcey  would 
have  been,  perhaps,  the  only  one  whose  judgments 
he  would  have  considered  sound.     No  one  had  laid 


20  Fraternity 

up  a  competence  for  Mr.  Purcey,  who  had  been  in 
business  from  the  age  of  twenty. 

It  is  uncertain  whether  the  mere  fact  that  he  was 
not  in  his  own  fold  kept  this  visitor  lingering  in  the 
studio  when  all  other  guests  were  gone;  or  whether 
it  was  simply  the  feeling  that  the  longer  he  stayed 
in  contact  with  really  artistic  people  the  more  dis- 
tinguished he  was  becoming.  Probably  the  latter, 
for  the  possession  of  that  Harpignies,  a  good  specimen, 
which  he  had  bought  by  accident,  and  subsequently 
by  accident  discovered  to  have  a  peculiar  value, 
had  become  a  factor  in  his  life,  marking  him  out  from 
all  his  friends,  who  went  in  more  for  a  neat  type 
of  Royal  Academy  landscape,  together  with  repro- 
ductions of  young  ladies  in  eighteenth-century 
costumes  seated  on  horseback,  or  in  Scotch  gardens. 
A  junior  partner  in  a  banking-house  of  some  im- 
portance, he  lived  at  Wimbledon,  whence  he  passed 
up  and  down  daily  in  his  car.  To  this  he  owed  his 
acquaintance  with  the  family  of  Dallison.  For  one 
day,  after  telling  his  chauffeur  to  await  him  at  the 
gate  of  the  Broad  Walk,  he  had  set  out  to  stroll 
down  Rotten  Row,  as  he  often  did  on  the  way  home, 
designing  to  nod  to  anybody  that  he  knew.  It  had 
turned  out  a  somewhat  barren  expedition.  No  one 
of  any  consequence  had  met  his  eye ;  and  it  was  with 
a  certain  almost  fretful  longing  for  distraction  that 
in  Kensington  Gardens  he  came  on  an  old  man  feed- 
ing birds  out  of  a  paper  bag.  The  birds  having 
flown  away  on  seeing  him,  he  approached  the  feeder 
to    apologise. 

**I  *m  afraid  I  frightened  your  birds,  sir,  '*  he  began. 

This   old   man.   who   was   dressed   in  smoke-grey 


A  Family  Discussion  21 

tweeds  which  exhaled  a  poignant  scent  of  peat, 
looked  at  him  without  answering. 

**I  *m  afraid  your  birds  saw  me  coming,'*  Mr. 
Purcey  said  again. 

**In  those  days'*  said  the  aged  stranger,  ** birds 
were   afraid   of   men." 

Mr.  Purcey's  shrewd  grey  eyes  perceived  at  once 
that  he  had  a  character  to  deal  with. 

**Ah,  yes!"  he  said;  '*I  see — you  allude  to  the 
present  time.     That's  very  nice.     Ha,  ha!" 

The  old  man  answered:  **The  emotion  of  fear  is 
inseparably  connected  with  a  primitive  state  of 
fratricidal  rivalry." 

This  sentence  put  Mr.  Purcey  on  his  guard. 

'*The  old  chap,"  he  thought,  **is  touched.  He 
evidently  ought  n't  to  be  out  here  by  himself. "  He 
debated,  therefore,  whether  he  should  hasten  away 
toward  his  car  or  stand  by,  in  case  his  assistance 
should  be  needed.  Being  a  kind-hearted  man,  who 
believed  in  his  capacity  for  putting  things  to  rights, 
and  noticing  a  certain  delicacy — a  sort  **of  some- 
thing rather  distinguished,"  as  he  phrased  it 
afterwards — in  the  old  fellow's  face  and  figure, 
he  decided  to  see  if  he  could  be  of  any  service. 
They  walked  along  together,  Mr.  Purcey  watching 
his  new  friend  askance,  and  directing  the  march 
to  where  he  had  ordered  his  chauffeur  to  await 
him. 

**You  are  very  fond  of  birds,  I  suppose,"  he  said 
cautiously. 

"The  birds  are  our  brothers." 

The  answer  was  of  a  nature  to  determine  Mr. 
Purcey  in  his  diagnosis  of  the  case. 


22  Fraternity 

**I*ve  got  my  car  here,''  he  said.  **Let  me  give 
you  a  lift  home. " 

This  new  but  aged  acquaintance  did  not  seem  to 
hear;  his  lips  moved  as  though  he  were  following 
out  some  thought. 

"In  those  days,"  Mr.  Purcey  heard  him  say,  **the 
congeries  of  men  were  known  as  rookeries.  The  ex- 
pression was  hardly  just  towards  that  handsome 
bird. " 

Mr.  Purcey  touched  him  hastily  on  the  arm. 

**I 've  got  my  car  here,  sir,"  he  said.  *'Do  let 
me  put  you  down!" 

Telling  the  story  afterwards,  he  had  spojcen  thus: 

'*The  old  chap  knew  where  he  lived  right  enough; 
but  dash  me  if  I  believe  he  noticed  that  I  was  taking 
him  there  in  my  car — I  had  the  A.i.  Damyer  out. 
That 's  how  I  came  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
these  Dallisons.  He's  the  writer,  you  know;  and 
she  paints — rather  the  new  school — ^she  admires 
Harpignies.  Well,  when  I  got  there  in  the  car  I 
found  Dallison  in  the  garden.  Of  course  I  was  care- 
ful not  to  put  my  foot  into  it.  I  told  him :  *  I  found 
this  old  gentleman  wandering  about.  I  've  just 
brought  him  back  in  my  car. '  Who  should  the  old 
chap  turn  out  to  be  but  her  father!  They  were 
awfully  obliged  to  me.  Charmin'  people,  but  very 
what  d'  you  call  it — fin  de  siecle — like  all  these  pro- 
fessors, these  artistic  pigs — seem  to  know  rather  a 
queer  set,  advanced  people,  and  all  that  sort  of 
cuckoo,  always  talkin'  about  the  poor,  and  societies, 
and  new  religions,  and  that  kind  of  thing. " 

Though  he  had  since  been  to  see  them  several 
times,  the  Dallisons  had  never  robbed  him  of  the 


A  Family  Discussion  23 

virtuous  feeling  of  that  good  action — they  had  never 
let  him  know  that  he  had  brought  home,  not,  as  he 
imagined,  a  lunatic,  but  merely  a  philosopher. 

It  had  been  somewhat  of  a  quiet  shock  to  him  to 
find  Mr.  Stone  close  to  the  doorway  when  he  entered 
Bianca's  studio  that  afternoon;  for  though  he  had 
seen  him  since  the  encounter  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
and  knew  that  he  was  writing  a  book,  he  still  felt 
that  he  was  not  quite  the  sort  of  old  man  that  one 
ought  to  meet  about.  He  had  at  once  begun  to  tell 
him  of  the  hanging  of  the  Shoreditch  murderer,  as 
recorded  in  the  evening  papers.  Mr.  Stone's  re- 
ception of  that  news  had  still  further  confirmed  his 
original  views.  When  all  the  guests  were  gone — 
with  the  exception  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stephen  Dallison 
and  Miss  Dallison,  **that  awfully  pretty  girl,**  and 
the  young  man  **who  was  always  hangin*  about  her** 
— he  had  approached  his  hostess  for  some  quiet  talk. 
She  stood  listening  to  him,  very  well  bred,  with  just 
that  habitual  spice  of  mockery  in  her  smile,  which 
to  Mr.   Purcey*s  eyes  made  her  **a  very  strikin'- 

lookin*   woman,  but  rather **     There  he  would 

stop,  for  it  required  a  greater  psychologist  than  he 
to  describe  a  secret  disharmony  which  a  little  marred 
her  beauty.  Due  to  some  too  violent  cross  of  blood, 
to  an  environment  too  unsuited,  to  what  not — it 
was  branded  on  her.  Those  who  knew  Bianca 
Dallison  better  than  Mr.  Purcey  were  but  too  well 
aware  of  this  fugitive,  proud  spirit  permeating  one 
whose  beauty  would  otherwise  have  passed  un- 
questioned. 

She  was  a  little  taller  than  Cecilia,  her  figure  rather 
fuller  and  more  graceful,  her  hair  darker,  her  eyes, 


24  Fraternity 

too,  darker  and  more  deeply  set,  her  cheek-bones 
higher,  her  colouring  richer.  That  spirit  of  the  age, 
Disharmony,  must  have  presided  when  a  child  so 
vivid  and  dark-coloured  was  christened  Bianca. 

Mr.  Purcey,  however,  was  not  a  man  who  allowed 
the  finest  shades  of  feeling  to  interfere  with  his  enjoy- 
ments. She  was  a  *'strikin'-lookin*  woman,**  and 
there  was,  thanks  to  Harpignies,  a  link  between 
them. 

'*Your  father  and  I,  Mrs.  Dallison,  can't  quite 
understand  each  other,**  he  began.  **Our  views 
of  life  don't  seem  to  hit  it  off  exactly.*' 

"Really,**  murmured  Bianca,  "I  should  have 
thought  that  you  *d  have  got  on  so  well.** 

"  He  *s  a  little  bit  too — er — scriptural  for  me, 
perhaps,'*  said  Mr.  Purcey,  with  some  delicacy. 

"Did  we  never  tell  you,*'  Bianca  answered  softly, 
"that  my  father  was  a  rather  well-known  man  of 
science  before  his  illness?*' 

"Ah!"  replied  Mr.  Purcey,  a  little  puzzled;  "that, 
of  course.  D*  you  know,  of  all  your  pictures,  Mrs. 
Dallison,  I  think  that  one  you  call  The  Shadow 
is  the  most  rippin '.  There  's  a  something  about  it 
that  gets  hold  of  you.  That  was  the  original  was  n't 
it,  at  your  Christmas  party — attractive  girl — it  's 
an  awf'ly  good  likeness.** 

Bianca*s  face  had  changed,  but  Mr.  Purcey  was 
not  a  man  to  notice  a  little  thing  like  that. 

"If  ever  you  want  to  part  with  it,"  he  said,  "I 
hope  you  *11  give  me  a  chance.  I  mean  it  *d  be  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  have  it.  I  think  it  '11  be  worth  a 
lot  of  money  some  day.  ** 

Bianca  did  not  answer,  and  Mr,  Purcey,  feeling 


A  Family  Discussion  25 

suddenly  a  little  awkward,  said:  "I  Ve  got  my  car 
waiting.  I  must  be  off — really/'  Shaking  hands 
with  all  of  them,  he  went  away. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  his  back,  a 
universal  sigh  went  up.  It  was  followed  by  a  silence, 
which  Hilary  broke. 

"We  '11  smoke,  Stevie,  if  Cis  doesn't  mind." 

Stephen  Dallison  placed  a  cigarette  between  his 
moustacheless  lips,  always  rather  screwed  up,  and 
ready  to  nip  with  a  smile  anything  that  might  make 
him  feel  ridiculous. 

"Phew!"  he  said.  "Our  friend  Purcey  becomes 
a  little  tedious.  He  seems  to  take  the  whole  of 
Philistia  about  with  him." 

"He  's  a  very  decent  fellow,"  murmured  Hilary. 

"A  bit  heavy,  surely!"  Stephen  Dallison 's  face, 
though  also  long  and  narrow,  was  not  much  like 
his  brother's.  His  eyes,  though  not  unkind,  were 
far  more  scrutinising,  inquisitive,  and  practical; 
his  hair  darker,  smoother. 

Letting  a  puff  of  smoke  escape,  he  added: 

"  Now,  that  's  the  sort  of  man  to  give  you  a 
good  sound  opinion.  You  should  have  asked  him, 
Cis." 

Cecilia  answered  with  a  frown: 

"Don't  chaff,  Stephen;  I'm  perfectly  serious 
about  Mrs.  Hughs." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  what  I  can  do  for  the  good 
woman,  my  dear.  One  can't  interfere  in  these 
domestic  matters." 

"But  it  seems  dreadful  that  we  who  employ  her 
should  be  able  to  do  nothing  for  her.  Don't  you 
think  so,  B.?" 


26  Fraternity 

"I  suppose  we  could  do  something  for  her  if  we 
wanted  to  badly  enough." 

Bianca's  voice,  which  had  the  self-distrustful  ring 
of  modern  music,  suited  her  personality. 

A  glance  passed  between  Stephen  and  his  wife. 

"That 's  B.  all  over!"  it  seemed  to  say. 

" Hound  Street,  where  they  live,  is  a  horrid  place.' 

It  was  Thyme  who  spoke,  and  everybody  looked 
round  at  her. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Cecilia. 

"I  went  to  see." 

"With  whom?" 

"Martin." 

The  lips  of  the  young  man  whose  name  she  men- 
tioned curled  sarcastically. 

Hilary  asked  gently: 

"Well,  my  dear,  what  did  you  see?" 

"  Most  of  the  doors  are  open "  ^ 

Bianca  murmured:  "That  doesn't  tell  us  much." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Martin  suddenly,  in  a 
deep  bass  voice,  "it  tells  you  everything.     Go  on." 

"The  Hughs  live  on  the  top  floor  at  No.  i.  It  *s 
the  best  house  in  the  street.  On  the  ground-floor 
are  some  people  called  Budgen;  he  's  a  labourer,  and 
she  *s  lame.  They  Ve  got  one  son.  The  Hughs  have 
let  off  the  first-floor  front-room  to  an  old  man  named 
Creed " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Cecilia  muttered. 

"He  makes  about  one  and  tenpence  a  day  by 
selling  papers.  The  back-room  on  that  floor  they 
let,  of  course,  to  your  little  model,  Aunt  B. " 

"  She  is  not  my  model  now. " 

There   was  a  silence   such  as  falls  when  no  one 


A  Family  Discussion  27 

knows  how  far  the  matter  mentioned  is  safe  to  touch 
on.     Thyme  proceeded  with  her  report. 

"  Her  room  's  much  the  best  in  the  house ;  it  *s 
airy,  and  it  looks  out  over  someone's  garden.  I 
suppose  she  stays  there  because  it  *s  so  cheap.     The 

Hughs'  rooms  are **     She  stopped,  wrinkling  her 

straight  nose. 

"So  that's  the  household,''  said  Hilary.  "Two 
married  couples,  one  young  man,  one  young  girl" — > 
his  eyes  travelled  from  one  to  another  of  the  two 
married  couples,  the  young  man,  and  the  young  girl, 
collected  in  this  room — "  and  one  old  man, "  he  added 
softly. 

"  Not  quite  the  sort  of  place  for  you  to  go  poking 
about  in.  Thyme,"  Stephen  said  ironically.  "Do 
you  think  so,  Martin?" 

"Why  not?" 

Stephen  raised  his  brows,  and  glanced  towards  his 
wife.  Her  face  was  dubious,  a  little  scared.  There 
was  a  silence.     Then  Biarica  spoke: 

"Well?"  That  word,  like  nearly  all  her  speeches, 
seemed  rather  to  disconcert  her  hearers. 

"So  Hughs  ill-treats  her?"  said  Hilary. 

"She  says  so,"  replied  Cecilia — "at  least,  that's 
what  I  understood.  Of  course,  I  don't  know  any 
details." 

"She  had  better  get  rid  of  him,  I  should  think," 
Bianca  murmured. 

Out  of  the  silence  that  followed  Thyme's  clear 
voice  was  heard  saying: 

"She  can't  get  a  divorce;  she  could  get  a  separa- 
tion." 

Cecilia    rose    uneasily.     These    words    concreted 


28  Fraternity 

suddenly  a  wealth  of  half-acknowledged  doubts  about 
her  little  daughter.  This  came  of  letting  her  hear 
people  talk  and  go  about  with  Martin!  She  might 
even  have  been  listening  to  her  grandfather — such  a 
thought  was  most  disturbing.  And,  afraid,  on  the 
one  hand,  of  gainsaying  the  liberty  of  speech,  and, 
on  the  other,  of  seeming  to  approve  her  daughter's 
knowledge  of  the  world,  she  looked  at  her  husband. 

But  Stephen  did  not  speak,  feeling,  no  doubt,  that 
to  pursue  the  subject  would  be  either  to  court  an 
ethical,  even  an  abstract,  disquisition,  and  this  one 
did  not  do  in  anybody's  presence,  much  less  one's 
wife  and  daughter's;  or  to  touch  on  sordid  facts  of 
doubtful  character,  which  was  equally  distasteful 
in  the  circumstances.  He,  too,  however,  was  uneasy 
that  Thyme  should  know  so  much. 

The  dusk  was  gathering  outside;  the  fire  threw  a 
flickering  light,  fitfully  outlining  their  figures,  making 
those  faces,  so  familiar  to  each  other,  a  little  mys- 
terious. 

At  last  Stephen  broke  the  silence.  "  Of  course,  I  'm 
very  sorry  for  her,  but  you  'd  better  let  it  alone — 
you  can't  tell  with  that  sort  of  people;  you  never 
can  make  out'  what  they  want — it  's  safer  not  to 
meddle.  At  all  events,  it 's  a  matter  for  a  Society 
to  look  into  first!" 

Cecilia  answered:  "But  she's  on  my  conscience, 
Stephen." 

"They  're  all  on  my  conscience,"  muttered  Hilary. 

Bianca  looked  at  him  for  the  first  time;  then, 
turning  to  her  nephew,  said:  "What  do  you  say, 
Martin?" 

The  young  man,  whose  face  was  stained  by  the 


A  Family  Discussion  29 

firelight  the  colour  of  pale  cheese,  made  no 
answer. 

But  suddenly  through  the  stillness  came  a  voice: 

"I   have   thought   of  something." 

Everyone  turned  round.  Mr.  Stone  was  seen 
emerging  from  behind  The  Shadow;  his  frail  figure, 
in  its  grey  tweeds,  his  silvery  hair  and  beard,  were 
outlined  sharply  against  the  wall. 

"Why,  Father,"  Cecilia  said,  "we  didn't  know 
that  you  were  here!" 

Mr.  Stone  looked  round  bewildered;  it  seemed 
as  if  he,  too,  had  been  ignorant  of  that  fact. 

"What  is  it  that  you  've  thought  of?" 

The  firelight  leaped  suddenly  on  to  Mr.  Stone's 
thin  yellow  hand. 

"Each  of  us,"  he  said,  "has  a  shadow  in  those 
places — in  those  streets. " 

There  was  a  vague  rustling,  as  of  people  not  taking 
a  remark  too  seriously,  and  the  sound  of  a  closing 
door. 


CHAPTER  III 
Hilary's  brown  study 

"IX/HAT  do  you  really  think,   Uncle  Hilary?" 

V  V  Turning  at  his  writing-table  to  look  at  the 
face  of  his  young  niece,  Hilary  Dallison  answered: 

"My  dear,  we  have  had  the  same  state  of  affairs 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world.  There  is  no  chem- 
ical process,  as  far  as  my  knowledge  goes,  that  does 
not  make  waste  products.  What  your  grandfather 
calls  our  *  shadows*  are  the  waste  products  of  the 
social  process.  That  there  is  a  submerged  tenth  is 
as  certain  as  that  there  is  an  emerged  fiftieth  like 
ourselves;  exactly  who  they  are  and  how  they  come, 
whether  they  can  ever  be  improved  away,  is,  I  think, 
as  uncertain  as  anything  can  be.'' 

The  figure  of  the  girl  seated  in  the  big  armchair 
did  not  stir.  Her  lips  pouted  contemptuously,  a 
frown  wrinkled  her  forehead. 

"  Martin  says  that  a  thing  is  only  impossible  when 
we  think  it  so." 

"  Faith  and  the  mountain,  I  'm  afraid. " 

Thyme's  foot  shot  forth;  it  nearly  came  into  con- 
tact with  Miranda,  the  little  bulldog. 

"Oh,  duckie!" 

But  the  little  moonlight  bulldog  backed  away. 

"I  hate  these  slums,  uncle;  they're  so  disgusting!" 

Hilary  leaned  his  face  on  his  thin  hand;  it  was  his 
characteristic  attitude. 

30 


Hilary's  Brown  Study  31 

"They  are  hateful,  disgusting,  and  heartrending. 
That  does  not  make  the  problem  any  the  less  diffi' 
cult,  does  it?'* 

"  I  believe  we  simply  make  the  difficulties  ourselves 
by  seeing  them.*' 

Hilary  smiled.     *'Does  Martin  say  that  too?" 

**0f  course  he  does." 

''Speaking  broadly,"  murmured  Hilary,  *'I  see 
only  one  difficulty — human  nature." 

Thyme  rose.  **I  think  it  horrible  to  have  a  low 
opinion  of  human  nature. " 

**My  dear,"  said  Hilary,  *' don't  you  think  per- 
haps that  people  who  have  what  is  called  a  low 
opinion  of  human  nature  are  really  more  tolerant 
of  it,  more  in  love  with  it,  in  fact,  than  those  who, 
looking  to  what  human  nature  might  be,  are  bound 
to  hate  what  human  nature  is?  " 

The  look  which  Thyme  directed  at  her  uncle's 
amiable,  attractive  face,  with  its  pointed  beard, 
high  forehead,  and  peculiar  little  smile,  seemed  to 
alarm  Hilary. 

**I  don't  want  you  to  have  an  unnecessarily  low 
opinion  of  me,  my  dear.  I  'm  not  one  of  those  people 
who  tell  you  that  everything  's  all  right  because  the 
rich  have  their  troubles  as  well  as  the  poor.  A  certain 
modicum  of  decency  and  comfort  is  obviously  neces- 
sary to  man  before  we  can  begin  to  do  anything  but 
pity  him;  but  that  doesn't  make  it  any  easier  to 
know  how  you  're  going  to  insure  him  that  modicum 
of  decency  and  comfort,'  does  it?" 

''We've  got  to  do  it,"  said  Thyme;  "it  won't 
wait  any  longer. " 

"My  dear,"  said  Hilary,   "think  of  Mr.   Purcey! 


32  Fraternity 

What  proportion  of  the  upper  classes  do  you  imagine 
is  even  conscious  of  that  necessity?  We,  who  have 
got  what  I  call  the  social  conscience,  rise  from  the 
platform  of  Mr.  Purcey ;  we  *re  just  a  gang  of  a  few 
thousands  to  Mr.  Purcey's  tens  of  thousands,  and  how 
many  even  of  us  are  prepared,  or,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  fitted,  to  act  on  our  consciousness?  In  spite  of 
your  grandfather's  ideas,  I  'm  afraid  we  *re  all  too 
much  divided  into  classes;  man  acts,  and  always  has 
acted,  in  classes." 

'*0h — classes!"  answered  Thyme— ** that  *s  the 
old  superstition,  uncle." 

*'Is  it?  I  thought  one's  class,  perhaps,  was  only 
oneself  exaggerated — not  to  be  shaken  off.  For 
instance,  what  are  you  and  I,  with  our  particular 
prejudices,    going    to    do?" 

Thyme  gave  him  the  cruel  look  of  youth,  which 
seemed  to  say:  **You  are  my  very  good  uncle,  and 
a  dear;  but  you  are  more  than  twice  my  age.  That, 
I  think,  is  conclusive!" 

**Has  something  been  settled  about  Mrs.  Hughs?" 
she  asked  abruptly. 

**What  does  your  father  say  this  morning?" 

Thyme  picked  up  her  portfolio  of  drawings,  and 
moved  towards  the  door. 

** Father  's  hopeless.  He  hasn't  an  idea  beyond 
referring  her  to  the  S.  P.  B. " 

She  was  gone;  and  Hilary,  with  a  sigh,  took  his  pen 
up,  but  he  wrote  nothing  down.  .  .  . 

Hilary  and  Stephen  Dallison  were  grandsons  of 
that  Canon  Dallison,  well  known  as  friend,  and 
sometime  adviser,  of  a  certain  Victorian  novelist. 
The  Canon,  who  came  of  an  old  Oxfordshire  family. 


Hilary* s  Brown  Study  33 

which  for  three  hundred  years  at  least  had  served 
the  Church  or  State,  was  himself  the  author  of  two 
volumes  of  Socratic  Dialogues,  He  had  bequeathed 
to  his  son — a  permanent  official  in  the  Foreign  Office 
— if  not  his  literary  talent,  the  tradition  at  all  events 
of  culture.  This  tradition  had  in  turn  been  handed 
on  to  Hilary  and  Stephen. 

Educated  at  a  public  school  and  Cambridge, 
blessed  with  competent,  though  not  large,  inde- 
pendent incomes,  and  brought  up  never  to  allude 
to  money  if  it  could  possibly  be  helped,  the  two 
young  men  had  been  turned  out  of  the  mint  with 
something  of  the  same  outward  stamp  on  them. 
Both  were  kindly,  both  fond  of  open-air  pursuits, 
and  neither  of  them  lazy.  Both,  too,  were  very 
civilised,  with  that  bone-deep  decency,  that  dislike 
of  violence,  nowhere  so  prevalent  as  in  the  upper 
classes  of  a  country  whose  settled  institutions  are 
as  old  as  its  roads,  or  the  walls  that  insulate  its  parks. 
But  as  time  went  on,  the  one  great  quality  which 
heredity  and  education,  environment  and  means,  had 
bred  in  both  of  them — self-consciousness — acted  in 
these  two  brothers  very  differently.  To  Stephen 
it  was  preservative,  keeping  him,  as  it  were,  in  ice 
throughout  hot-weather  seasons,  enabling  him  to 
know  exactly  when  he  was  in  danger  of  decompo- 
sition, so  that  he  might  nip  the  process  in  the  bud ; 
it  was  with  him  a  healthy,  perhaps  slightly  chemical, 
ingredient,  binding  his  component  parts,  causing 
them  to  work  together  safely,  homogeneously.  In 
Hilary  the  effect  seemed  to  have  been  otherwise; 
like  some  slow  and  subtle  poison,  this  great  quality, 
self-consciousness,  had  soaked  his  system  through 
3 


34  Fraternity 

and  through;  permeated  every  cranny  of  his  spirit, 
so  that  to  think  a  definite  thought,  or  do  a  definite 
deed,  was  obviously  becoming  difiicult  to  him.  It 
took  in  the  main  the  form  of  a  sort  of  gentle  desic- 
cating humour. 

**It  's  a  remarkable  thing,"  he  had  one  day  said 
to  Stephen,  **that  by  the  process  of  assimilating 
little  bits  of  chopped-up  cattle  one  should  be  able  to 
form  the  speculation  of  how  remarkable  a  thing  it  is.'* 

Stephen  had  paused  a  second  before  answering — 
they  were  lunching  off  roast  beef  in  the  Law  Courts 
— he  had  then  said: 

*'You're  surely  not  going  to  eschew  the  higher 
mammals,  like  our  respected  father-in-law?'' 

'*0n  the  contrary,"  said  Hilary,  **to  chew  them; 
but  it  is  remarkable,  for  all  that;  you  missed  my 
point. " 

It  was  clear  that  a  man  who  could  see  anything 
remarkable  in  such  a  thing  was  far  gone,  and  Stephen 
had  murmured: 

"  My  dear  old  chap,  you  're  getting  too  intro- 
spective." 

Hilary,  having  given  his  brother  the  peculiar 
retiring  smile,  which  seemed  not  only  to  say,  "  Don't 
let  me  bore  you,"  but  also,  "Well,  perhaps  you 
had  better  wait  outside, "  the  conversation  closed. 

That  smile  of  Hilary's,  which  jibbed  away  from 
things,  though  disconcerting  and  apt  to  put  an  end 
to  intercourse,  was  natural  enough.  A  sensitive 
man,  who  had  passed  his  life  amongst  cultivated 
people  in  the  making  of  books,  guarded  from  real 
wants  by  modest,  not  vulgar,  affluence,  had  not 
reached  the   age   of  forty-two  without   finding   his 


Hilary's  Brown  Study  35 

delicacy  sharpened  to  the  point  of  fastidiousness. 
Even  his  dog  could  see  the  sort  of  man  he  was.  She 
knew  that  he  would  take  no  liberties,  either  with 
her  ears  or  with  her  tail.  She  knew  that  he  would 
never  hold  her  mouth  ajar,  and  watch  her  teeth, 
as  some  men  do ;  that  when  she  was  lying  on  her  back 
he  would  gently  rub  her  chest  without  giving  her 
the  feeling  that  she  was  doing  wrong,  as  women  will ; 
and  if  she  sat,  as  she  was  sitting  now,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  his  study  fire,  he  would  never,  she  knew, 
even  from  afar,  prevent  her  thinking  of  the  nothing 
she  loved  to  think  on. 

In  his  study,  which  smelt  of  a  special  mild  to- 
bacco warranted  to  suit  the  nerves  of  any  literary 
man,  there  was  a  bust  of  Socrates,  which  always 
seemed  to  have  a  strange  attraction  for  its  owner. 
He  had  once  described  to  a  fellow-writer  the  im- 
pression produced  on  him  by  that  plaster  face,  so 
capaciously  ugly,  as  though  comprehending  the 
whole  of  human  life,  sharing  all  man's  gluttony 
and  lust,  his  violence  and  rapacity,  but  sharing 
also  his  strivings  toward  love  and  reason  and 
serenity. 

"He's  telling  us,"  said  Hilary,  "to  drink  deep, 
to  dive  down  and  live  with  mermaids,  to  lie  out  on 
the  hills  under  the  sun,  to  sweat  with  helots,  to  know 
all  things  and  all  men.  No  seat,  he  says,  among 
the  Wise,  unless  we  've  been  through  it  all,  before 
we  climb!  That's  how'  he  strikes  me — ^not  too 
cheering  for  people  of  our  sort!" 

Under  the  shadow  of  this  bust  Hilary  rested  his 
forehead  on  his  hand.  In  front  of  him  were  three 
open  books  and  a  pile  of   manuscript,  and  pushed 


36  Fraternity 

to  one  side  a  little  sheaf  of  pieces  of  green-white 
paper,  press-cuttings  of  his  latest  book. 

The  exact  position  occupied  by  his  work  in  the 
life  of  such  a  man  is  not  too  easy  to  define.  He  earned 
an  income  by  it,  but  he  was  not  dependent  on  that 
income.  As  poet,  critic,  writer  of  essays,  he  had 
made  himself  a  certain  name — not  a  great  name,  but 
enough  to  swear  by.  Whether  his  fastidiousness 
could  have  stood  the  conditions  of  literary  existence 
without  private  means  was  now  and  then  debated 
by  his  friends;  it  could  probably  have  done  so  better 
than  was  supposed,  for  he  sometimes  startled  those 
who  set  him  down  as  a  dilettante  by  a  horny  way  of 
retiring  into  his  shell  for  the  finish  of  a  piece  of  work. 

Try  as  he  would  that  morning  to  keep  his  thoughts 
concentrated  on  his  literary  labour,  they  wandered 
to  his  conversation  with  his  niece  and  to  the  dis- 
cussion on  Mrs.  Hughs,  the  family  seamstress,  in  his 
wife's  studio  the  day  before.  Stephen  had  lingered 
behind  Cecilia  and  Thyme  when  they  went  away 
after  dinner,  to  deliver  a  last  counsel  to  his  brother 
at  the  garden  gate. 

"Never  meddle  between  man  and  wife — ^you 
know  what  the  lower  classes  are!" 

And  across  the  dark  garden  he  had  looked  baqk 
towards  the  house.  One  room  on  the  ground-floor 
alone  was  lighted.  Through  its  open  window  the 
head  and  shoulders  of  Mr.  Stone  could  be  seen  close 
to  a  small  green  reading-lamp.  Stephen  shook  his 
head,  murmuring: 

"But,  I  say,  our  old  friend,  eh?  *In  those  places 
—in  those  streets ! '  It  's  worse  than  simple  cranki- 
ness— ^the    poor    old    chap    is    getting   almost " 


Hiliary's  Brown  Study  37 

And  touching  his  forehead  lightly  with  two  fingers 
he  had  hurried  off  with  the  ever-springy  step 
of  one  whose  regularity  habitually  controls  his 
imagination. 

Pausing  a  minute  amongst  the  bushes,  Hilary  too 
had  looked  at  the  lighted  window  that  broke  the  dark 
front  of  his  house,  and  his  little  moonlight  bulldog, 
peering  round  his  legs,  had  gazed  up  also.  Mr. 
Stone  was  still  standing,  pen  in  hand,  presumably 
deep  in  thought.  His  silvered  head  and  beard  moved 
slightly  to  the  efforts  of  his  brain.  He  came  over 
to  the  window,  and,  evidently  not  seeing  his  son- 
in-law,  faced  out  into  the  night. 

In  that  darkness  were  all  the  shapes  and  lights 
and  shadows  of  a  London  night  in  spring;  the  trees 
in  dark  bloom;  the  wan  yellow  of  the  gas-lamps,  pale 
emblems  of  the  self-consciousness  of  towns;  the 
clustered  shades  of  the  tiny  leaves,  spilled,  purple, 
on  the  surface  of  the  road,  like  bunches  of  black 
grapes  squeezed  down  into  the  earth  by  the  feet  of 
the  passers-by.  There,  too,  were  shapes  of  men  and 
women  hurrying  home,  and  the  great  blocked  shapes 
of  the  houses  where  they  lived.  A  halo  hovered 
above  the  City — a  high  haze  of  yellow  light,  dimming 
the  stars.  The  black,  slow  figure  of  a  policeman 
moved  noiselessly  along  the  railings  opposite. 

From  then  till  eleven  o'clock,  when  he  would  make 
himself  some  cocoa  on  a  little  spirit-lamp,  the  writer 
of  the  Book  of  Universal  Brotherhood  would  alternate 
between  his  bent  posture  above  his  manuscript  and 
his  blank  consideration  of  the  night.  .  .  . 

With  a  jerk,  Hilary  came  back  to  his  reflections 
beneath  the  bust  of  Socrates. 


38  Fraternity 

"Each  of  us  has  a  shadow  in  those  places — ^in  those 
streets!" 

There  certainly  was  a  virus  in  that  notion.  One 
must  either  take  it  as  a  jest,  like  Stephen;  or,  what 
must  one  do?  How  far  was  it  one's  business  to  iden- 
tify oneself  with  other  people,  especially  the  helpless — 
how  far  to  preserve  oneself  intact — integer  vitce?  Hil- 
ary was  no  young  person,  like  his  niece  or  Martin, 
to  whom  everything  seemed  simple;  nor  was  he  an  old 
person  like  their  grandfather,  for  whom  life  had  lost 
its  complications. 

And,  very  conscious  of  his  natural  disabilities  for 
a  decision  on  a  like,  or  indeed  on  any,  subject  except, 
perhaps,  a  point  of  literary  technique,  he  got  up 
from  his  writing-table  and,  taking  his  little  bulldog, 
went  out.  His  intention  was  to  visit  Mrs.  Hughs  in 
Hound  Street,  and  see  with  his  own  eyes  the  state  of 
things.  But  he  had  another  reason,  too,  for  wishing 
to  go  there.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    LITTLE    MODEL 

WHEN  in  the  preceding  autumn  Bianca  began 
her  picture  called  The  Shadow^  nobody  was 
more  surprised  than  Hilary  that  she  asked  him  to 
find  her  a  model  for  the  figure.  Not  knowing  the 
nature  of  the  picture,  nor  having  been  for  many  years 
— perhaps  never — admitted  into  the  workings  of 
his  wife's  spirit,  he  said  : 

**  Why  don't  you  ask  Thyme  to  sit  for  you?" 

Bianca  answered:  **She  's  not  the  type  at  all — too 
matter-of-fact.  Besides,  I  don't  want  a  lady;  the 
figure's  to  be  half  draped." 

Hilary  smiled. 

Bianca  knew  quite  well  that  he  was  smiling  at  this 
distinction  between  ladies  and  other  women,  and 
understood  that  he  was  smiling,  not  so  much  at  her, 
but  at  himself,  for  secretly  agreeing  with  the  distinc- 
tion she  had  made. 

And  suddenly  she  smiled  too. 

There  was  the  whole  history  of  their  married  life  in 
those  two  smiles.  They  meant  so  much:  so  many 
thousand  hours  of  suppressed  irritation,  so  many 
baffled  longings  and  earnest  efforts  to  bring  their 
natures  together.  They  were  the  supreme,  quiet 
evidence  of  the  divergence  of  two  lives — ^that  slow 
divergence  which  had  been  far  from  being  wilful,  and 
was  the  more  hopeless  in  that  it  had  been  so  gradual 

39 


40  Fraternity 

and  so  gentle.  They  had  never  really  had  a  quarrel, 
having  enlightened  views  of  marriage;  but  they  had 
smiled.  They  had  smiled  so  often  through  so  many 
years  that  no  two  people  in  the  world  could  very  well 
be  further  from  each  other.  Their  smiles  had  banned 
the  revelation  even  to  themselves  of  the  tragedy  of 
their  wedded  state.  It  is  certain  that  neither  could 
help  those  smiles,  which  were  not  intended  to  wound, 
but  came  on  their  faces  as  naturally  as  moonlight  falls 
on  water,  out  of  their  inimically  constituted  souls. 

Hilary  spent  two  afternoons  among  his  artist  friends 
trying,  by  means  of  the  indications  he  had  gathered, 
to  find  a  model  for  The  Shadow.  He  had  found  one 
at  last.  Her  name,  Barton,  and  address  had  been 
given  him  by  a  painter  of  still  life,  called  French. 

"She  's  never  sat  to  me,*'  he  said;  "my  sister  dis- 
covered her  in  the  West  Country  somewhere.  She  's 
got  a  story  of  som.e  sort.  I  don't  know  what.  She 
came  up  about  three  months  ago,  I  think." 

"She's  not  sitting  to  your  sister  now?"  Hilary 
asked. 

"No,"  said  the  painter  of  still  life;  "my  sister  's 
married  and  gone  out  to  India.  I  don't  know  whether 
she  'd  sit  for  the  half-draped,  but  I  should  think  so. 
She  '11  have  to,  sooner  or  later;  she  may  as  well  begin, 
especially  as  your  wife  's  a  woman.  There  's  a  some- 
thing about  her  that 's  attractive — you  might  try 
her ! "  And  with  these  words  he  resumed  the  painting 
of  still  life  which  he  had  broken  off  to  talk  to  Hilary. 

Hilary  had  written  to  this  girl  to  come  and  see  him. 
She  had  come  just  before  dinner  the  same  day. 

He  found  her  standing  in  the  middle  of  his  study, 
not  daring,  as  it  seemed,  to  go  near  the  furniture,  and 


The  Little  Model  41 

as  there  was  very  little  light,  he  could  hardly  see  her 
face.  She  was  resting  a  foot,  very  patient,  very  still, 
in  an  old  brown  skirt,  an  ill-shaped  blouse,  and  a 
blue-green  tam-o'-shanter  cap.  Hilary  turned  up  the 
light.  He  saw  a  round  little  face  with  broad  cheek- 
bones, flower-blue  eyes,  short  lamp-black  lashes,  and 
slightly  parted  lips.  It  was  difficult  to  judge  of  her 
figuie  in  those  old  clothes,  but  she  was  neither  short 
nor  tall;  her  neck  was  white  and  well  set  on,  her  hair 
pale  brown  and  abundant.  Hilary  noted  that  her 
chin,  though  not  receding,  was  too  soft  and  small; 
but  what  he  noted  chiefly  was  her  look  of  patient 
expectancy,  as  though  beyond  the  present  she  were 
seeing  something,  not  necessarily  pleasant,  which 
had  to  come.  If  he  had  not  known  from  the  painter 
of  still  life  that  she  was  from  the  country,  he  would 
have  thought  her  a  town-bred  girl,  she  looked  so  pale. 
Her  appearance,  at  all  events,  was  not  *'too  matter- 
of-fact.*'  Her  speech,  however,  with  its  slight  West- 
Country  burr,  was  matter-of-fact  enough,  concerned 
entirely  with  how  long  she  would  have  to  sit,  and  the 
pay  she  was  to  get  for  it.  In  the  middle  of  their 
conversation  she  sank  down  on  the  floor,  and  Hilary 
was  driven  to  restore  her  with  biscuits  and  liqueur, 
which  in  his  haste  he  took  for  brandy.  It  seemed  she 
had  not  eaten  since  her  breakfast  the  day  before, 
which  had  consisted  of  a  cup  of  tea.  In  answer  to 
his  remonstrance,  she  made  this  matter-of-fact  re- 
mark: 

"  If  you  have  n't  money,  you  can't  buy  things.  .  .  . 
There  's  no  one  I  can  ask  up  here;  I  *m  a  stranger." 
"Then  you  have  n't  been  getting  work?" 
"No,"  the  little  model  answered  sullenly;  "I  don't 


42  Fraternity 

want  to  sit  as  most  of  them  want  me  to  till  I  'm 
obliged.*'  The  blood  rushed  up  in  her  face  with 
startling  vividness,  then  left  it  white  again. 

"Ah!'*  thought  Hilary,  "she  has  had  experience 
already.'* 

Both  he  and  his  wife  were  accessible  to  cases  of  dis- 
tress, but  the  nature  of  their  charity  was  different. 
Hilary  was  constitutionally  unable  to  refuse  his  aid  to 
an3rthing  that  held  out  a  hand  for  it.  Bianca  (whose 
sociology  was  sounder),  while  affirming  that  charity 
was  wrong,  since  in  a  properly  constituted  State  no  one 
should  need  help,  referred  her  cases,  like  Stephen,  to 
the  "Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Begging,*'  which 
took  much  time  and  many  pains  to  ascertain  the 
worst. 

But  in  this  case  what  was  of  importance  was  that  the 
poor  girl  should  have  a  meal,  and  after  that  to  find 
out  if  she  were  living  in  a  decent  house ;  and  since  she 
appeared  not  to  be,  to  recommend  her  somewhere 
better.  And  as  in  charity  it  is  always  well  to  kill  two 
birds  with  one  expenditure  of  force,  it  was  found  that 
Mrs.  Hughs,  the  seamstress,  had  a  single  room  to  let 
unfurnished,  and  would  be  more  than  glad  of  four 
shillings,  or  even  three  and  six,  a  week  for  it.  Furni- 
ture was  also  found  for  her:  a  bed  that  creaked,  a 
washstand,  table,  and  chest  of  drawers;  a  carpet,  two 
chairs,  and  certain  things  to  cook  with;  some  of  those 
old  photographs  and  prints  that  hide  in  cupboards, 
and  a  peculiar  little  clock,  which  frequently  forgot  the 
time  of  day.  All  these  and  some  elementary  articles 
of  dress  were  sent  round  in  a  little  van,  with  three 
ferns  whose  time  had  nearly  come,  and  a  piece  of  the 
plant  called  "honesty.*'     Soon  after  this  she  came 


The  Little  Model  43 

to  "sit."  She  was  a  very  quiet  and  passive  little 
model,  and  was  not  required  to  pose  half-draped, 
Bianca  having  decided  that,  after  all.  The  Shadow 
was  better  represented  fully  clothed;  for,  though  she 
discussed  the  nude,  and  looked  on  it  with  freedom, 
when  it  came  to  painting  unclothed  people,  she  felt 
a  sort  of  physical  aversion. 

Hilary,  who  was  curious,  as  a  man  naturally  would 
be,  about  anyone  who  had  fainted  from  hunger  at 
his  feet,  came  every  now  and  then  to  see,  and  would 
sit  watching  this  little  half-starved  girl  with  kindly 
and  screwed-up  eyes.  About  his  personality  there 
was  all  the  evidence  of  that  saying  current  among 
those  who  knew  him:  "Hilary  would  walk  a  mile 
sooner  than  tread  on  an  ant/'  The  little  model, 
from  the  moment  when  he  poured  liqueur  between 
her  teeth,  seemed  to  feel  he  had  a  claim  on  her,  for 
she  reserved  her  small,  matter-of-fact  confessions 
for  his  ears.  She  made  them  in  the  garden,  coming 
in  or  going  out;  or  outside,  and,  now  and  then,  inside 
his  study,  like  a  child  who  comes  and  shows  you  a 
sore  finger.  Thus,  quite  suddenly:  "  I  've  four  shillings 
left  over  this  week,  Mr.  Dallison,'*  or,  "Old  Mr. 
Creed  's  gone  to  the  hospital  to-day,  Mr.  Dallison."       y^ 

Her  face  soon  became  less  bloodless  than  on  that 
first  evening,  but  it  still  was  pale,  inclined  to  colour  in 
wrong  places  on  cold  days,  with  little  blue  veins  about 
the  temples  and  shadows  under  the  eyes.  The  lips 
were  still  always  a  trifle  parted,  and  she  still  seemed 
to  be  looking  out  for  what  was  coming,  like  a  little 
Madonna,  or  Venus,  in  a  Botticelli  picture.  This  look 
of  hers,  coupled  with  the  matter-of-factness  of  her 
its  flavour  to  her  personality.  .  .  . 


/v 


44  Fraternity 

On  Christmas  Day  the  picture  was  on  view  to  Mr. 
Purcey,  who  had  chanced  to  "give  his  car  a  run," 
and  to  other  connoisseurs.  Bianca  had  invited  her 
model  to  be  present  at  this  function,  intending  to  get 
her  work.  But,  slipping  at  once  into  a  corner,  the 
girl  had  stood  as  far  as  possible  behind  a  canvas. 
People,  seeing  her  standing  there  and  noting  her 
likeness  to  the  picture,  looked  at  her  with  curiosity, 
and  passed  on,  murmuring  that  she  was  an  interest- 
ing type.  They  did  not  talk  to  her,  either  because 
they  were  afraid  she  could  not  talk  of  the  things 
they  could  talk  of,  or  that  they  could  not  talk  of  the 
things  she  could  talk  of,  or  because  they  were  anxious 
not  to  seem  to  patronise  her.  She  talked  to  no  one, 
therefore.  This  occasioned  Hilary  some  distress. 
He  kept  coming  up  and  smiling  at  her,  or  making 
tentative  remarks  or  jests,  to  which  she  would  reply, 
'*Yes  Mr.  Dallison,'*  or  "No,  Mr.  Dallison,''  as  the 
case  might  be. 

Seeing  him  return  from  one  of  these  little  visits, 
an  Art  Critic  standing  before  the  picture  had  smiled 
and  his  round,  clean-shaven,  sensual  face  had  assumed 
a  greenish  tint  in  eyes  and  cheeks,  as  of  the  fat  in 
turtle  soup. 

The  only  two  other  people  who  had  noticed  her 
particularly  were  those  old  acquaintances  Mr.  Purcey 
and  Mr.  Stone.  Mr.  Purcey  had  thought,  "  Rather  a 
good-lookin'  girl,''  and  his  eyes  strayed  somewhat 
continually  in  her  direction  There  was  something 
piquant  and,  as  it  were,  unlawfully  enticing  to  him 
in  the  fact  that  she  was  a  real  artist's  model. 

Mr.  Stone's  way  of  noticing  her  had  been  different. 
He    had    approached    in    his  slightly   inconvenient 


The  Little  Model  45 

way,  as  though  seeing  but  one  thing  in  the  whole 
world. 

"You  are  living  by  yourself?"  he  had  said.  "I 
shall  come  and  see  you.'* 

Made  by  the  Art  Critic  or  by  Mr.  Purcey,  that  some- 
what strange  remark  would  have  had  one  meaning; 
made  by  Mr.  Stone  it  obviously  had  another.  Having 
finished  what  he  had  to  say,  the  author  of  the  book 
of  Universal  Brotherhood  had  bowed  and  turned  to 
go.  Perceiving  that  he  saw  before  him  the  door 
and  nothing  else,  everybody  made  way  for  him  at 
once.  The  remarks  that  usually  arose  behind  his 
back  began  to  be  heard — ''Extraordinary  old  man!'* 
"  You  know,  he  bathes  in  the  Serpentine  all  the  year 
round?*'  "And  he  cooks  his  food  himself,  and  does 
his  own  room,  they  say;  and  all  the  rest  of  his  time 
he  writes  a  book!*'     "A  perfect  crank!*' 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  COMEDY  BEGINS 

THE  Art  Critic  who  had  smiled  was — ^like  all  men 
a  subject  for  pity  rather  than  for  blame.  An 
Irishman  of  real  ability,  he  had  started  life  with 
high  ideals  and  a  belief  that  he  could  live  with  them. 
He  had  hoped  to  serve  Art,  to  keep  his  service  pure; 
but,  having  one  day  let  his  acid  temperament  out 
of  hand  to  revel  in  an  orgy  of  personal  retaliation, 
he  had  since  never  known  when  she  would  slip  her 
chain  and  come  home  smothered  in  mire.  Moreover, 
be  no  longer  chastised  her  when  she  came.  His 
ideals  had  left  him,  one  by  one;  he  now  lived  alone, 
immune  from  dignity  and  shame,  soothing  himself 
with  whiskey.  A  man  of  rancour,  meet  for  pity, 
and,  in  his  cups,  contented. 

He  had  lunched  freely  before  coming  to  Bianca's 
Christmas  function,  but  by  four  o'clock  the  gases 
which  had  made  him  feel  the  world  a  pleasant  place 
had  nearly  all  evaporated,  and  he  was  suffering  from 
a  wish  to  drink  again.  Or  it  may  have  been  that 
this  girl,  with  her  soft  look,  gave  him  the  feeling 
that  she  ought  to  have  belonged  to  him;  and  as  she 
did  not,  he  felt,  perhaps,  a  natural  irritation  that 
she  belonged,  or  might  belong,  to  somebody  else. 
Or,  again,  it  was  possible  his  natural  male  distaste 
for  the  works  of  women  painters  that  induced  an 
awkward  frame  of  mind. 

46 


The  Comedy  Begins  47 

Two  days  later  in  a  daily  paper,  over  no  signa- 
ture, appeared  this  little  paragraph:  **We  learn  that 
The  Shadow,  painted  by  Bianca  Stone,  who  is  not 
generally  known  to  be  the  wife  of  the  writer,  Mr. 
Hilary  Dallison,  will  soon  be  exhibited  at  the  Bencox 
Gallery.  This  very  fin-de-sibde  creation,  with  its 
unpleasant  subject,  representing  a  woman  (pre- 
sumably of  the  streets)  standing  beneath  a  gas-lamp, 
is  a  somewhat  anaemic  piece  of  painting.  If  Mr. 
Dallison,  who  finds  the  type  an  interesting  one, 
embodies  her  in  one  of  his  very  charming  poems,  we 
trust  the  result  will  be  less  bloodless." 

The  little  piece  of  green-white  paper  containing 
this  information  was  handed  to  Hilary  by  his  wife 
at  breakfast.  The  blood  mounted  slowly  in  his 
cheeks.  Bianca's  eyes  fastened  themselves  on  that 
flush.  Whether  or  no — as  philosophers  say — ^little 
things  are  all  big  with  the  past,  of  whose  chain  they 
are  the  latest  links,  they  frequently  produce  what 
apparently  are  great  results. 

The  marital  relations  of  Hilary  and  his  wife, 
which  till  then  had  been  those  of,  at  all  events, 
formal  conjugality,  changed  from  that  moment. 
After  ten  o'clock  at  night  their  lives  became  as 
separate  as  though  they  lived  in  different  houses. 
And  this  change  came  about  without  expostulations, 
reproach,  or  explanation,  just  by  the  turning  of  a 
1&  ^y;  and  even  this  was  the  merest  symbol,  employed 
once  only,  to  save  the  ungracefulness  of  words. 
Such  a  hint  was  quite  enough  for  a  man  like  Hilary, 
whose  delicacy,  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  peculiar 
faculty  of  starting  back  and  retiring  into  himself, 
put  the  need  of  anything  further  out  of  the  question. 


48  Fraternity 

Both  must  have  felt,  too,  that  there  was  nothing 
that  could  be  explained.  An  anonymous  double 
entendre  was  not  precisely  evidence  on  which  to 
found  a  rupture  of  the  marital  tie.  The  trouble 
was  so  much  deeper  than  that — the  throbbing  of  a 
woman*s  wounded  self-esteem,  of  the  feeling  that 
she  was  no  longer  loved,  which  had  long  cried  out 
for  revenge. 

One  morning  in  the  middle  of  the  week  after  this 
incident  the  innocent  author  of  it  presented  herself 
in  Hilary's  study,  and,  standing  in  her  peculiar 
patient  attitude,  made  her  little  statements.  As 
usual,  they  were  very  little  ones;  as  usual,  she  seemed 
helpless,  and  suggested  a  child  with  a  sore  finger. 
'*  She  had  no  other  work ;  she  owed  the  week's  rent ; 
she  did  not  know  what  would  happen  to  her;  Mrs. 
Dallison  did  not  want  her  any  more;  she  could  not 
tell  what  she  had  done!  The  picture  was  finished, 
she  knew,  but  Mrs.  Dallison  had  said  she  was  going 
to  paint  her  again  in  another  picture.  .  .  .  '* 

Hilary  did  not  reply. 

**.  •  .  That  old  gentleman,  Mr. — Mr.  Stone,  had 
been  to  see  her.  He  wanted  her  to  come  and  copy 
out  his  book  for  two  hours  a  day,  from  four  to  six, 
at  a  shilling  an  hour.  Ought  she  to  come,  please.^ 
He  said  his  book  would  take  him  years. " 

Before  answering  her  Hilary  stood  for  a  full  minute 
staring  at  the  fire.  The  little  model  stole  a  look  - 1 
him.  He  suddenly  turned  and  faced  her.  Fiis 
glance  was  evidently  disconcerting  to  the  girl.  It 
was,  indeed,  a  critical  and  dubious  look,  such  as 
he  might  have  bent  on  a  folio  of  doubtful  origin. 

**Don't  you    think,*'   he   said    at   last,    **that  it 


The  Comedy  Begins  49 

would  be  much  better  for  you  to  go  back  into  the 
country?'* 

The  little  model  shook  her  head  vehemently. 

'*0h,  no!'' 

**Well,  but  why  not?  This  is  a  most  unsatis- 
factory sort  of  life." 

The  girl  stole  another  look  at  him,  then  said 
sullenly : 

**I  can't  go  back  there." 

**What  is  it?     Aren't  your  people  nice  to  you?" 

She  grew  red. 

**No;  and  I  don't  want  to  go;"  then,  evidently 
seeing  from  Hilary's  face  that  his  delicacy  forbade 
his  questioning  her  further,  she  brightened  up,  and 
murmured:  **The  old  gentleman  said  it  would  make 
me  independent." 

'*Well,"  replied  Hilary,  with  a  shrug,  "you'd 
better  take  his  offer. " 

She  kept  turning  her  face  back  as  she  went  down 
the  path,  as  though  to  show  her  gratitude.  And 
presently,  looking  up  from  his  manuscript,  he  saw 
her  face  still  at  the  railings,  peering  through  a  lilac 
bush.  Suddenly  she  skipped,  like  a  child  let  o^^t 
of  school.  Hilary  got  up,  perturbed.  The  sight 
of  that  skipping  was  like  the  rays  of  a  lantern  turned 
on  the  dark  street  of  another  human  being's  lif'i. 
It  revealed,  as  in  a  flash,  the  loneliness  of  this  child, 
without  money  and  without  friends,  in  the  midst 
of  this  great  town. 

The  months  of  January,  February,  March  passed, 
and  the  little  model  came  daily  to  copy  the  Book  of 
Universal  Brotherhood, 

Mr.  Stone's  room,  for  which  he  insisted  on  paying 


50  Fraternity 

rent,  was  never  entered  by  a  servant.  It  was  on  the 
ground-floor,  and  anyone  passing  the  door  between 
the  hours  of  four  and  six  could  hear  him  dictating 
slowly,  pausing  now  and  then  to  spell  a  word.  In 
these  two  hours  it  appeared  to  be  his  custom  to  read 
out,  for  fair  copying,  the  labours  of  the  other  seven. 

At  five  o'clock  there  was  invariably  a  sound  of 
plates  and  cups,  and  out  of  it  the  little  model's  voice 
would  rise,  matter-of-fact,  soft,  monotoned,  making 
little  statements;  and,  in  turn  Mr.  Stone's  also  making 
statements  that  clearly  lacked  cohesion  with  those 
of  his  young  friend.  On  one  occasion,  the  door 
being  open,  Hilary  heard  distinctly  the  following 
conversation: 

The  Little  Model:  '*Mr.  Creed  says  he  was  a 
butler.     He  's  got  an  ugly  nose."  (A  pause.) 

Mr.  Stone:  **In  those  days  men  were  absorbed 
in  thinking  of  their  individualities.  Their  occupations 
seemed  to  them  important '* 

The  Little  Model:  *'Mr.  Creed  says  his  savings 
were  all  swallowed  up  by  illness.** 

Mr.  Stone:  ** — ^it  was  not  so.*' 

The  Little  Model:  **Mr,  Creed  says  he  was 
always  brought  up  to  go  to  church.** 

Mr.  Stone  (suddenly) :  "There  has  been  no  church 
worth  going  to  since  a.d.  700." 

The  Little  Model:  ''But  he  does  n't  go." 

And  with  a  flying  glance  through  the  just  open 
door  Hilary  saw  her  holding  bread-and-butter  with 
inky  fingers,  her  lips  a  little  parted,  expecting  the 
next  bite,  and  her  eyes  fixed  curiously  on  Mr.  Stone, 
whose  transparent  hand  held  a  teacup,  and  whose 
eyes  were  immovably  fixed  on  distance. 


The  Comedy  Begins  51 

It  was  one  day  in  April  that  Mr.  Stone,  heralded 
by  the  scent  of  Harris  tweed  and  baked  potatoes 
which  habitually  encircled  him,  appeared  at  five 
o'clock  in  Hilary's  study  doorway. 

**She  has  not  come,"  he  said. 

Hilary  laid  down  his  pen.  It  was  the  first  real 
Spring  day. 

**  Will  you  come  for  a  walk  with  me,  sir,  instead?" 
he  asked. 
^  **Yes,"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

They  walked  out  into  Kensington  Gardens,  Hilary 
with  his  head  rather  bent  towards  the  ground,  and 
Mr.  Stone,  with  eyes  fixed  on  his  far  thoughts,  slightly 
poking  forward  his  silver  beard. 

In  their  favourite  firmaments  the  stars  of  crocuses 
and  daffodils  were  shining.  Almost  every  tree  had 
its  pigeon  cooing,  every  bush  its  blackbird  in  full 
song.  And  on  the  paths  were  babies  in  perambula- 
tors. These  were  their  happy  hunting-grounds,  and 
here  they  came  each  day  to  watch  from  a  safe  dis- 
tance the  little  dirty  girls  sitting  on  the  grass  nursing 
little  dirty  boys,  to  listen  to  the  ceaseless  chatter  of 
these  common  urchins,  and  learn  to  deal  with  the 
great  problem  of  the  lowest  classes.  They  sat  there 
in  their  perambulators,  thinking  and  sucking  india- 
rubber  tubes.  Dogs  went  before  them,  and  nurse- 
maids followed  after. 

The  spirit  of  colour  was  flying  in  the  distant  trees, 
swathing  them  with  brownish-purple  haze;  the  sky 
was  saffroned  by  dying  sunlight.  It  was  such  a 
day  as  brings  a  longing  to  the  heart,  like  that  which 
the  moon  brings  to  the  hearts  of  children. 

Mr.  Stone  and  Hilary  sat  down  in  the  Broad  Walk. 


52  Fraternity 

*' Elm-trees!'*  said  Mr.  Stone.  *'It  is  not  known 
when  they  assumed  their  present  shape.  They 
have  one  universal  soul.  It  is  the  same  with  man.** 
He  ceased,  and  Hilary  looked  round  uneasily.  They 
were  alone  on  the  bench. 

Mr.  Stone's  voice  rose  again.  **  Their  form  and 
balance  is  their  single  soul;  they  have  preserved 
it  from  century  to  century.  This  is  all  they  live 
for.  In  those  days*' — ^liis  voice  sank;  he  had  plainly 
forgotten  that  he  was  not  alone — ''when  men  had 
no  universal  conceptions,  they  would  have  done 
well  to  look  at  the  trees.  Instead  of  fostering  a 
number  of  little  souls  on  the  pabulum  of  varying 
theories  of  future  life,  they  should  have  been  con- 
cerned to  improve  their  present  shapes,  and  thus 
to  dignify  man's  single  soul.** 

*'Elms  were  always  considered  dangerous  trees, 
I  believe,*'  said  Hilary. 

Mr.  Stone  turned,  and,  seeing  his  son-in-law  beside 
him,  asked: 

"You  spoke  to  me,  I  think?** 

''Yes,  sir.** 

Mr.  Stone  said  wistfully: 

"Shall  we  walk?" 

They  rose  from  the  bench  and  walked  on.   .    .    . 

The  explanation  of  the  little  model's  absence 
was  thus  stated  by  herself  to  Hilary:  "I  had  an 
appointment.*' 

"More  work?" 

"A  friend  of  Mr.  French.*' 

"Yes— who?" 

"Mr.  Lennard.  He's  a  sculptor;  •  he 's  got  a 
studio  in  Chelsea.     He  wants  me  to  pose  to  him." 


y 


The  Comedy  Begins  53 

-•Ah!" 

She  stole  a  glance  at  Hilary  and  hung  her  head. 

Hilary  turned  to  the  window.  **You  know  what 
posing  to  a  sculptor  means,  of  course?'' 

The  little  model's  voice  sounded  behind  him, 
matter-of-fact  as  ever:  **He  said  I  was  just  the 
figure  he  was  looking  for." 

Hilary  continued  to  stare  out  of  the  window. 
''I  thought  you  didn't  mean  to  begin  standing  for 
the  nude." 

*'I  don't  want  to  stay  poor  always." 

Hilary  turned  round  at  the  strange  tone  of  these 
unexpected  words. 

The  girl  was  in  a  streak  of  sunlight;  her  pale 
cheeks  flushed;  her  pale,  half-opened  lips  red;  her 
eyes,  in  their  setting  of  short  black  lashes,  wide 
and  mutinous;  her  young  round  bosom  heaving  as 
if  she  had  been  running. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  on  copying  books  all  my 
life." 

"Oh,  very  well." 

"Mr.  Dallison!  I  didn't  mean  that — I  didn't, 
really!    I  want  to  do  what  you  tell  me  to  do — I  do!" 

Hilary  stood  contemplating  her  with  the  dubious, 
critical  look,  as  though  asking:  "What  is  there 
behind  you?  Are  you  really  a  genuine  edition,  or 
what?"  which  had  so  disconcerted  her  before.  At 
last  he  said:  "You  must  do  just  as  you  like.  I 
never  advise  anybody." 

"But  you  don't  want  me  to — I  know  you  don't. 
Of  course,  if  you  don't  want  me  to,  then  it  '11  be 
a  pleasure  not  to!" 

Hilary  smiled. 


54  Fraternity 

"Don't  you  like  copying  for  Mr.  Stone?" 

The  little  model  made  a  face.  "  I  like  Mr.  Stone- 
he  's  such  a  funny  old  gentleman." 

"That  is  the  general  opinion,"  answered  Hilary. 
"But  Mr.  Stone,  you  know,  thinks  that  we  are 
funny." 

The  little  model  smiled  faintly,  too;  the  streak 
of  sunlight  had  slanted  past  her,  and,  standing 
there  behind  its  glamour  and  million  floating  specks 
of  gold-dust,  she  looked  for  the  moment  like  the 
young  Shade  of  Spring,  watching  with  expectancy 
for  what  the  year  would  bring  her. 

With  the  words  "I  am  ready,"  spoken  from  the 
doorway,  Mr.  Stone  interrupted  further  colloquy.  .  .  . 

But  though  the  girl's  position  in  the  household 
had,  to  all  seeming,  become  established,  now  and 
then  some  little  incident — ^straws  blowing  down  the 
wind — showed  feelings  at  work  beneath  the  family's 
apparent  friendliness,  beneath  that  tentative  and 
almost  apologetic  manner  towards  the  poor  or  help- 
less, which  marks  out  those  who  own  what  Hilary 
had  called  the  "social  conscience."  Only  three 
days,  indeed,  before  he  sat  in  his  brown  study, 
meditating  beneath  the  bust  of  Socrates,  Cecilia, 
coming  to  lunch,  had  let  fall  this  remark: 

"Of  course,  I  know  nobody  can  read  his  hand- 
writing; but  I  can't  think  why  father  does  n't  dictate 
to  a  typist,  instead  of  to  that  little  girl.  She  could 
go  twice  the  pace!" 

Bianca's  answer,  deferred  for  a  few  seconds,  was: 
"Hilary  perhaps  knows." 

"Do  you  dislike  her  coming  here?"  asked  Hilary. 
"  Not  particularly.    Why  ? ' ' 


The  Comedy  Begins  55 

"I  thought  from  your  tone  you  did." 

"  I  don't  dislike  her  coming  here  for  that  purpose." 

"Does  she  come  for  any  other?" 

Cecilia,  dropping  her  quick  glance  to  her  fork, 
said  just  a  little  hastily:  "Father  is  extraordinary, 
of  course." 

But  the  next  three  days  Hilary  was  out  in  the 
afternoon  when  the  little  model  came. 

This,  then,  was  the  other  reason,  on  the  moitiing 
of  the  first  of  May,  that  made  him  not  averse  to  go 
and  visit  Mrs.  Hughs  in  Hound  Street,  Kensington. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FIRST   PILGRIMAGE   TO   HOUND   STRIET 

HILARY  and  his  little  bulldog  entered  Hound 
Street  from  its  eastern  end.  It  was  a  grey 
street  of  three -storied  houses,  all  in  one  style  of 
architecture.  Nearly  all  their  doors  were  open,  and 
on  the  doorsteps  babes  and  children  were  enjoying 
Easter  holidays.  They  sat  in  apathy,  varied  by 
sudden  little  slaps  and  bursts  of  noise.  Nearly  all 
were  dirty;  some  had  whole  boots,  some  half  boots, 
and  two  or  three  had  none.  In  the  gutters  more 
children  were  at  play;  their  shrill  tongues  and 
febrile  movements  gave  Hilary  the  feeling  that 
their  "caste"  exacted  of  them  a  profession  of  this 
faith:  "To-day  we  live;  to-morrow — if  there  be 
one — will  be  like  to-day.'* 

He  had  unconsciously  chosen  the  very  centre 
of  the  street  to  walk  in,  and  Miranda,  who  had 
never  in  her  life  demeaned  herself  to  this  extent, 
ran  at  his  heels,  turning  up  her  eyes,  as  though  to 
say:  "One  thing  I  make  a  point  of — ^no  dog  must 
speak  to  me!" 

Fortunately,  there  were  no  dogs;  but  there  were 
many  cats,  and  these  cats  were  thin. 

Through  the  upper  windows  of  the  houses  Hilary 
had  glimpses  of  women  in  poor  habiliments  doing 
various  kinds  of  work,  but  stopping  now  and  then 
to  gaze  into  the  street.    He  walked  to  the  end,  where 

56 


First  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street     57 

a  wall  stopped  him,  and,  still  in  the  centre  of  the 
road,  he  walked  the  whole  length  back.  The  children 
stared  at  his  tall  figure  with  indifference;  they 
evidently  felt  that  he  was  not  of  those  who,  like 
themselves,  had  no  to-morrow. 

No.  I,  Hound  Street,  abutting  on  the  garden  of 
a  house  of  better  class,  was  distinctly  the  show 
building  of  the  street.  The  door,  however,  was 
not  closed,  and  pulling  the  remnant  of  a  bell,  Hilary 
walked  in. 

The  first  thing  that  he  noticed  was  a  smell;  it 
was  not  precisely  bad,  but  it  might  have  been  better. 
It  was  a  smell  of  walls  and  washing,  varied  rather 
vaguely  by  red  herrings.  The  second  thing  he 
noticed  was  his  moonlight  bulldog,  who  stood  on 
the  doorstep  eyeing  a  tiny  sandy  cat.  This  very 
little  cat,  whose  back  was  arched  with  fury,  he  was 
obliged  to  chase  away  before  his  bulldog  would 
come  in.  The  third  thing  he  noticed  was  a  lame 
woman  of  short  stature,  standing  in  the  doorway 
of  a  room.  Her  face,  with  big  cheek-bones,  and 
wide-open,  light  grey,  dark-lashed  eyes,  was  broad 
and  patient;  she  rested  her  lame  leg  by  holding  to 
the  handle  of  the  door. 

**  I  dunno  if  you  '11  find  anyone  upstairs.  I  'd  go 
and  ask,  but  my  leg  's  lame." 

"So  I  see,'*  said  Hilary;  *^I  'm  sorry." 

The  woman  sighed:  *'Been  like  that  these  five 
years";  and  turned  back  into  her  room. 

**  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done  for  it?" 

"Well,  I  did  think  so  once,"  replied  the  woman, 
''but  they  say  the  bone's  diseased;  I  neglected 
it  at  the  start." 


58  Fraternity 

"Oh,  dear!" 

"We  hadn't  the  time  to  give  to  it,"  the  woman 
said  defensively,  retiring  into  a  room  so  full  of  china 
cups,  photographs,  coloured  prints,  waxwork  fruits, 
and  other  ornaments,  that  there  seemed  no  room 
for  the  enormous  bed. 

Wishing  her  good-morning,  Hilary  began  to  mount 
the  stairs.  On  the  first  floor  he  paused.  Here,  in 
the  back  room,  the  little  model  lived. 

He  looked  around  him.  The  paper  on  the  passage 
walls  was  of  a  dingy  orange  colour,  the  blind  of  the 
window  torn,  and  still  pursuing  him,  pervading 
everything,  was  the  scent  of  walls  and  washing  and 
red  herrings.  There  came  on  him  a  sickness,  a  sort 
of  spiritual  revolt.  To  live  here,  to  pass  up  these 
stairs,  between  these  dingy,  bilious  walls,  on  this 
dirty  carpet,  with  this — ugh!  every  day;  twice, 
four  times,  six  times,  who  knew  how  many  times  a 
day!  And  that  sense,  the  first  to  be  attracted  or 
revolted,  the  first  to  become  fastidious  with  the 
culture  of  the  body,  the  last  to  be  expelled  from 
the  temple  of  the  pure  spirit;  that  sense  to  whose 
refinement  all  breeding  and  all  education  is  devoted; 
that  sense  which,  ever  an  inch  at  least  in  front  of 
man,  is  able  to  retard  the  development  of  nations, 
and  paralyse  all  social  schemes — this  Sense  of  Smell 
awakened  within  him  the  centuries  of  his  gentility, 
the  ghosts  of  all  those  Dallisons  who,  for  three 
hundred  years  and  more,  had  served  Church  or 
State.  It  revived  the  souls  of  scents  he  was  ac- 
customed to,  and  with  them,  subtly  mingled,  the 
whole  live  fabric  of  asstheticism,  woven  in  fresh  air 
and  laid  in  lavender.     It  roused  the  simple,  non- 


First  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street     59 

extravagant  demand  of  perfect  cleanliness.  And 
though  he  knew  that  chemists  would  have  certified 
the  composition  of  his  blood  to  be  the  same  as  that 
of  the  dwellers  in  this  house,  and  that  this  smell, 
composed  of  walls  and  washing  and  red  herrings, 
was  really  rather  healthy,  he  stood  frowning  fixedly 
at  the  girl's  door,  and  the  memory  of  his  young . 
niece's  delicately  wrinkled  nose  as  she  described 
the  house  rose  before  him.  He  went  on  up-stairs, 
followed  by  his  moonlight  bulldog. 

Hilary's  tall  thin  figure  appearing  in  the  open 
doorway  of  the  top-floor  front,  his  kind  and  worried 
face,  and  the  pale  agate  eyes  of  the  little  bulldog 
peeping  through  his  legs,  were  witnessed  by  nothing 
but  a  baby,  who  was  sitting  in  a  wooden  box  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  This  baby,  who  was  very 
like  a  piece  of  putty  to  which  Nature  had  by  some 
accident  fitted  two  movable  black  eyes,  was  clothed 
in  a  woman's  knitted  undervest,  spreading  beyond 
his  feet  and  hands,  so  that  nothing  but  his  head 
was  visible.  This  vest  divided  him  from  the  wooden 
shavings  on  which  he  sat,  and,  since  he  had  not 
yet  attained  the  art  of  rising  to  his  feet,  the  box 
divided  him  from  contacts  of  all  other  kinds.  As 
completely  isolated  from  his  kingdom  as  the  Czar 
of  all  the  Russias,  he  was  doing  nothing.  In  this 
realm  there  was  a  dingy  bed,  two  chairs,  and  a 
washstand,  with  one  lame  leg,  supported  by  an 
aged  footstool.  Clothes  and  garments  were  hanging 
on  nails,  pans  lay  about  the  hearth,  a  sewing-machine 
stood  on  a  bare  deal  table.  Over  the  bed  was  hung 
an  oleograph,  from  a  Christmas  supplement,  of  the 
birth  of  Jesus,  and  above  it  a  bayonet,  under  which 


6o  Fraternity 

was  printed  in  an  illiterate  hand  on  a  rough  scroll 
of  paper:  "Gave  three  of  em  what  for  at  Elands- 
laagte.  S.  Hughs/*  Some  photographs  adorned 
the  walls,  and  two  drooping  ferns  stood  on  the 
window-ledge.  The  room  withal  had  a  sort  of  de- 
sperate tidiness;  in  a  large  cupboard,  slightly  open, 
could  be  seen  stowed  all  that  must  not  see  the  light 
of  day.  The  window  of  the  baby's  kingdom  was 
tightly  closed;  the  scent  was  the  scent  of  walls 
and  washing  and  red  herrings,  and — of  other  things. 

Hilary  looked  at  the  baby,  and  the  baby  looked 
at  him.  The  eyes  of  that  tiny  scrap  of  grey  humanity 
seemed  saying: 

*'You  are  not  my  mother,  I  believe?" 

He  stooped  down  and  touched  its  cheek.  The 
baby  blinked  its  black  eyes  once. 

**No,*'  it  seemed  to  say  again,  **you  are  not  my 
mother.*' 

A  lump  rose  in  Hilary's  throat;  he  turned  and 
went  down-stairs.  Pausing  outside  the  little  model's 
door,  he  knocked,  and,  receiving  no  answer,  turned 
the  handle.  The  little  square  room  was  empty; 
it  was  neat  and  clean  enough,  with  a  pink-flowered 
paper  of  comparatively  modern  date.  Through 
its  open  window  could  be  seen  a  pear-tree  in  full 
bloom.  Hilary  shut  the  door  again  with  care, 
ashamed  of  having  opened  it. 

On  the  half-landing,  staring  up  at  him  with  black 
eyes  like  the  baby's,  was  a  man  of  medium  height 
and  active  build,  whose  short  face,  with  broad 
cheek-bones,  cropped  dark  hair,  straight  nose,  and 
little  black  moustache,  was  burnt  a  dark  dun  colour. 
He  was  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  those  who  sweep 


First  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street     61 

the  streets — a  loose  blue  blouse,  and  trousers  tucked 
into  boots  reaching  half-way  up  his  calves;  he  held 
a  peaked  cap  in  his  hand. 

After  some  seconds  of  mutual  admiration,  Hilary 
said: 

"Mr.  Hughs,  I  believe?" 

"Yes." 

**I  Ve  been  up  to  see  your  wife." 

"Have  you?" 

"You  know  me,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  I  know  you." 

"Unfortunately,  there  's  only  your  baby  at  home." 

Hughs  motioned  with  his  cap  towards  the  little 
model's  room.  "I  thought  perhaps  you'd  been 
to  see  her,''  he  said.  His  black  eyes  smouldered; 
there  was  more  than  class  resentment  in  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face. 

Flushing  slightly  and  giving  him  a  keen  look, 
Hilary  passed  down  the  stairs  without  replying. 
But  Miranda  had  not  followed.  She  stood  with 
one  paw  delicately  held  up  above  the  topmost  step. 

"I  don't  know  this  man,"  she  seemed  to  say, 
"and  I  don't  like  his  looks." 

Hughs  grinned.  "I  never  hurt  a  dumb  animal," 
he  said;  "come  on,  tykie!" 

Stimulated  by  a  word  she  had  never  thought  to 
hear,  Miranda  descended  rapidly. 

"He  meant  that  for  impudence,"  thought  Hilary 
as  he  walked  away. 

*' Westminister,  sir?     Oh,  dear!" 

A  skinny  trembling  hand  was  offering  him  a 
greenish  newspaper. 

"Terrible  cold  wind  for  the  time  o'  year!" 


6  62  Fraternity 

^  A  very  aged  man  in  black-rimmed  spectacles, 
with  a  distended  nose  and  long  upper  lip  and  chin, 
was  tentatively  fumbling  out  change  for  sixpence. 

**I  seem  to  know  your  face,'*  said  Hilary. 

**0h,  dear,  yes.  You  deals  with  this  *ere  shop — 
the  tobacco  department.  I  've  often  seen  you  when 
you  Ve  a-been  a-goin'  in.  Sometimes  you  has  the 
Pell  Mell  off  o'  this  man  here.'*  He  jerked  his  head 
a  trifle  to  the  left,  where  a  younger  man  was  standing 
armed  with  a  sheaf  of  whiter  papers.  In  that  gesture 
were  years  of  envy,  heart-burning,  and  sense  of 
wrong.  **That  *s  my  paper,"  it  seemed  to  say, 
**by  all  the  rights  of  man;  and  that  low-class  fellow 
sellin'  it,  takin'  away  my  profits!" 

**I  sells  this  'ere  Westminister,  I  reads  it  on 
Sundays — ^it  's  a  gentleman's  paper,  *igh-class  paper — • 
notwithstandin'  of  its  politics.  But  Lor',  sir,  with 
this  'ere  man  a-sellin'  the  Pell  MelV — ^lowering  his 
voice,  he  invited  Hilary  to  confidence — **so  many 
o'  the  gentry  takes  that;  an'  there  ain't  too  many 
o'  the  gentry  about  'ere — I  mean,  not  o'  the  real 
gentry — that  I  can  afford  to  'ave  'em  took  away 
from  me." 

Hilary,  who  had  stopped  to  listen  out  of  delicacy, 
had  a  flash  of  recollection.  **You  live  in  Hound 
Street.?" 

The  old  man  answered  eagerly:  **0h,  dear!  Yes, 
sir — No.  I,  name  of  Creed.  You  're  the  gentleman 
where  the  young  person  goes  for  to  copy  of  a  book!" 
It 's  not  my  book  she  copies." 
Oh,  no ;  it 's  an  old  gentleman ;  I  know  'im. 
He  come  an'  see  me  once.  He  come  in  one  Sunday 
morning.     'Here's  a  pound  o'  tobacca  for  you!*  'a 


<< 


First  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street     63 

says.  'You  was  a  butler,'  *e  says.  'Butlers!'  'e 
says,  *  :here  '11  be  no  butlers  in  fifty  years.'  An* 
out  'e  goes.  Not  quite" — ^he  put  a  shaky  hand  up 
to  his  head — **not  quite — oh,  dear!" 

'*Sonie  people  called  Hughs  live  in  your  house, 
I  think?" 

*'I  rents  my  room  off  o'  them.  A  lady  was  a- 
speakin  to  me  yesterday  about  'em ;  that 's  not 
your  lady,  I  suppose,  sir?" 

His  eyes  seemed  to  apostrophize  Hilary's  hat, 
which  was  of  soft  felt:  "Yes,  yes — I  've  seen  your 
sort  a-stayin'  about  in  the  best  houses.  They  has 
you  down  because  of  your  learnin';  and  quite  the 
manners  of  a  gentleman  you  've  got." 

**My  wife's  sister,  I  expect." 

**0h  dear!  She  often  has  a  paper  off  o'  me.  A 
real  lady — not  one  o'  these" — again  he  invited 
Hilary  to  confidence — **you  know  what  I  mean, 
sir — ^that  buys  their  things  a'  ready-made  at  these 
'ere  large  establishments.    Oh,  I  know  her  well." 

"The  old  gentleman  that  visited  you  is  her  father." 

•'Is  he?  Oh,  dear!"  The  old  butler  was  silent, 
evidently  puzzled. 

Hilary's  eyebrows  began  to  execute  those  intricate 
manoeuvres  which  always  indicated  that  he  was 
about  to  tax  his  delicacy. 

"How — how  does  Hughs  treat  the  little  girl  who 
lives  in  the  next  room  to  you?" 

The  old  butler  replied  in  a  rather  gloomy  tone: 

"She  takes  my  advice,  and  don't  'ave  nothin'  to 
say  to  'im.  Dreadful  foreign-lookin'  man  'e  is. 
Wherever  'e  was  brought  up  I  can't  think!" 

"A  soldier,  was  n't  he?" 


64  Fraternity 

**So  he  says.  He's  one  o'  these  that  works  for 
the  Vestry;  an*  then  *e  '11  go  an'  get  upon  the  drink, 
an*  when  that  sets  *im  off,  it  seems  as  if  there  \)7as  n't 
no  respect  for  nothing  in  *im;  he  goes  on  against 
the  gentry,  and  the  Church,  and  every  sort  of  in- 
stitution. I  never  met  no  soldiers  like  him.  Dreadful 
foreign — Welsh,  they  tell  me." 

**What  do  you  think  of  the  street  you  're  living 
in?" 

'*I  keeps  myself  to  myself;  low  class  o'  street 
it  is;  dreadful  low  class  o*  persons  there — no  self- 
respect  about  'em.'* 

"Ah!"  said  Hilary. 

"These  little  'ouses,  they  get  into  the  hands  o' 
little  men,  and  they  don't  care  so  long  as  they  makes 
their  rent  out  o'  them.  They  can't  help  themselves — 
low  class  o'  man  like  that ;  'e  's  got  to  do  the  best  'e 
can  for  'imself.  They  say  there  's  thousands  o'  these 
'ouses  all  over  London.  There 's  some  that 's  for  pullin' 
of  'em  down,  but  that 's  talkin'  rubbish ;  where  are 
you  goin'  to  get  the  money  for  to  do  it?  These  'ere 
little  men,  they  can't  afford  not  even  to  put  a  paper 
on  the  walls,  and  the  big  ground  landlords — you 
can  't  expect  them  to  know  what 's  happenin'  behind 
their  backs.  There  's  some  ignorant  fellers  like  this 
Hughs  talks  a  lot  o'  wild  nonsense  about  the  duty 
o'  ground  landlords;  but  you  can  't  expect  the  real 
gentry  to  look  into  these  sort  o'  things.  They  've 
got  their  estates  down  in  the  country.  I  've  lived 
with  them,  and  of  course  I  know." 

The  little  bulldog,  incommoded  by  the  passers-by, 
now  took  the  opportunity  of  beating  with  her  tail 
against  the  old  butler's  legs. 


First  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street     65 

**0h,  dear!  what's  this?  He  don't  bite,  do  'e? 
Good  Sambo!" 

Miranda  sought  her  master's  eye  at  once.  **You 
see  what  happens  to  her  if  a  lady  loiters  in  the  streets," 
she  seemed  to  say. 

**It  must  be  hard  standing  about  here  all  day, 
after  the  life  you  've  led,"  said  Hilary. 

*'I  mustn't  complain;    it  's  been  the  salvation 


o  me. 


**Do  you  get  shelter?" 

Again  the  old  butler  seemed  to  take  him  into 
confidence. 

"Sometimes  of  a  wet  night  they  lets  me  stand  up 
in  the  archway  there;  they  know  I  'm  respectable. 
T  would  n't  never  do  for  that  man" — ^he  nodded  at 
his  rival — *'or  any  of  them  boys  to  get  standin'  there, 
obstructin'  of  the  traffic." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Creed,  is  there  anything 
to  be  done  for  Mrs.  Hughs?" 

The  frail  old  body  quivered  with  the  vindictive 
force  of  his  answer. 

*'Accordin'  to  what  she  says,  if  I  'm  a-to  believe 
'er,  I  'd  have  him  up  before  the  magistrate,  sure  as  my 
name  's  Creed,  an'  get  a  separation,  an'  I  would  n't 
never  live  with  'im  again:  that's  what  she  ought 
to  do.  An'  if  he  come  to  go  for  her  after  that,  I  'd 
have  'im  in  prison,  if  'e  killed  me  first!  I  've  no 
patience  with  a  low  class  o'  man  like  that !  He 
insulted  of  me  this  morning." 

** Prison  's  a  dreadful  remedy,"  murmured  Hilary. 

The   old   butler   answered   stoutly:    ** There   ain't 
but  one  way  o'  treatin'  them  low  fellers — ^ketch  hoL 
them  until  they  holler!" 


66  Fraternity 

Hilary  was  about  to  reply  when  he  found  himself 
alone.  At  the  edge  of  the  pavement  some  yards 
away,  Creed,  his  face  upraised  to  heaven,  was  em- 
bracing with  all  his  force  the  second  edition  of  the 
Westminster  Gazette,  which  had  been  thrown  him 
from  a  cart. 

"Well,"  thought  Hilary,  walking  on,  ''you  know 
your  own  mind,  anyway!*' 

And  trotting  by  his  side,  with  her  jaw  set  very 
firm,  his  little  bulldog  looked  up  above  her  eyes, 
and  seemed  to  say:  ''It  was  time  we  left  that  man 
of  action!" 


CHAPTER  Vn 
cbcilia's  scattered  thoughts 

IN  her  morning  room  Mrs.  Stephen  Dallison  sat  at 
an  old  oak  bureau  collecting  her  scattered 
thoughts.  They  lay  about  on  pieces  of  stamped 
note-paper,  beginning  **Dear  Cedlia,"  or  **Mrs.  Tal- 
lents  Smallpeace  requests,"  or  on  bits  of  pasteboard 
headed  by  the  names  of  theatres,  galleries,  or  concert- 
halls  ;  or,  again,  on  paper  of  not  quite  so  good  a  quality, 
commencing,  **Dear  Friend,"  and  ending  with  a 
single  well-known  name  like  "SufEolk/*  so  that  no 
suspicion  should  attach  to  the  appeal  contained  be- 
tween the  two.  She  had  before  her  also  sheets  of  her 
own  writing-paper,  headed  **76,  The  Old  Square, 
Kensington/'  and  two  little  books.  One  of  these 
was  bound  in  marbleised  paper,  and  on  it  written: 
** Please  keep  this  book  in  safety";  across  the  other, 
cased  in  the  skin  of  some  small  animal  deceased, 
was  inscribed  the  solitary  word  "Engagements." 

Cecilia  had  on  a  Persian-green  silk  blouse  with 
sleeves  that  would  have  hidden  her  slim  hands,  but 
for  silver  buttons  made  in  the  likeness  of  little  roses 
at  her  wrists;  on  her  brow  was  a  faint  frown,  as 
though  she  were  wondering  what  her  thoughts  were 
all  about.  She  sat  there  every  morning  catching  those 
thoughts,  and  placing  them  in  one  or  other  of  her 
little  books.  Only  by  thus  working  hard  could  she 
keep   herself,   her  husband,   and  daughter,  in  due 

6? 


A  Fraternity 

touch  with  all  the  different  movements  going  on. 
And  that  the  touch  might  be  as  due  as  possible, 
she  had  a  little  headache  nearly  every  day.  For 
the  dread  of  letting  slip  one  movement,  or  of  being 
too  much  taken  with  another,  was  very  real  to  her; 
there  were  so  many  people  who  were  interesting, 
so  many  sympathies  of  hers  and  Stephen's  which 
she  desired  to  cultivate,  that  it  was  a  matter  of  the 
utmost  import  not  to  cultivate  any  single  one  too 
much.  Then,  too,  the  duty  of  remaining  feminine 
with  all  this  going  forward  taxed  her  constitution. 
She  sometimes  thought  enviously  of  the  splendid 
isolation  now  enjoyed  by  Bianca,  of  which  some 
subtle  instinct,  rather  than  definite  knowledge,  had 
informed  her ;  but  not  often,  for  she  was  a  loyal  little 
person,  to  whom  Stephen  and  his  comforts  were  of  the 
first  moment.  And  though  she  worried  somewhat 
because  her  thoughts  would  come  by  every  post 
she  did  not  worry  very  much — ^hardly  more  than  the 
Persian  kitten  on  her  lap,  who  also  sat  for  hours  trying 
to  catch  her  tail,  with  a  line  between  her  eyes,  and 
two  small  hollows  in  her  cheeks. 

When  f»he  had  at  last  decided  what  concerts' 
she  would  be  obliged  to  miss,  paid  her  subscription  to 
the  League  for  the  Suppression  of  Tinned  Milk,  and 
accepted  an  invitation  to  watch  a  man  fall  from  a 
balloon,  she  paused.  Then,  dipping  her  pen  in  ink, 
she  wrote  as  follows : 

**Mrs.  Stephen  Dallison  would  be  glad  to  have 
the  blue  dress  ordered  by  her  yesterday  sent  home 
at  once  without  alteration. — Messrs.  Rose  and  Thorn, 
High  Street,  Kensington." 

Ringing  the  bell,  she  thought:  "It  will  be  a  job  for 


Cecilia's  Scattered  Thoughts       69 

Mrs.  Hughs,  poor  thing.  I  believe  she  *11  do  it  quite  as 
well  as  Rose  and  Thorn. — Would  you  please  ask 
Mrs.  Hughs  to  come  to  me? — Oh,  is  that  you,  Mrs. 
Hughs?     Come  in.*' 

The  seamstress,  who  had  advanced  into  the  middle 
of  the  room,  stood  with  her  worn  hands  against  her 
sides,  and  no  sign  of  life  but  the  liquid  patience  in  her 
large  brown  eyes.  She  was  an  enigmatic  figure.  Her 
presence  always  roused  a  sort  of  irritation  in  Cecilia, 
as  if  she  had  been  suddenly  confronted  with  what 
might  possibly  have  been  herself  if  certain  little  acci- 
dents had  omitted  to  occur.  She  was  so  conscious  that 
she  ought  to  sympathise,  so  anxious  to  show  that 
there  was  no  barrier  between  them,  so  eager  to  be  all 
she  ought  to  be,  that  her  voice  almost  purred. 

"Are  you  getting  on  with  the  curtains,  Mrs. 
Hughs?" 

**  Yes,  m'm,  thank  you,  m'm." 

"I  shall  have  another  job  for  you  to-morrow — ■ 
altering  a  dress.     Can  you  come?'* 
Yes,  m*m,  thank  you,  m'm." 
Is  the  baby  well?" 
Yes,  m'm,  thank  you,  m'm." 

There  was  a  silence. 

**It*s  no  good  talking  of  her  domestic  matters," 
thought  Cecilia;  **not  that  I  don*t  care!"  But  the 
silence  getting  on  her  nerves,  she  said  quickly:  **Is 
your  husband  behaving  himself  better?" 

There  was  no  answer:  Cecilia  saw  a  tear  trickle 
slowly  down  the  -vyroman's  cheek. 

**0h  dear,  oh  dear,"  she  thought;  ''poor  thing! 
I  'm  in  for  it!" 

Mrs.  Hughs*s  whispering  voice  began:** He's  be- 


70  Fraternity 

having  himself  dreadful,  m'm.  I  was  going  to  speak 
to  you.  It  *s  ever  since  that  young  girl'* — her  face 
hardened — **come  to  live  down  in  my  room  there;  he 
seem  to — ^he  seem  to — ^just  do  nothing  but  neglect 
me. 

Cecilia's  heart  gave  the  little  pleasurable  flutter 
which  the  heart  must  feel  at  the  love  dramas  of  other 
people,  however  painful. 

**You  mean  the  little  model?*'  she  said. 

The  seamstress  answered  in  an  agitated  voice:  "I 
don't  want  to  speak  against  her,  but  she  's  put  a  spell 
on  him,  that 's  what  she  has;  he  don't  seem  able  to  do 
nothing  but  talk  to  her,  and  hang  about  her  foom.  It 
was  that  troubling  me  when  I  saw  you  the  other  day. 
And  ever  since  yesterday  midday,  when  Mr.  Hilary 
came — ^he  's  been  talking  that  wild — and  he  pushed 

me— and— and "     Her  lips  ceased  to  form  articu- 

late  words,  but,  since  it  was  not  etiquette  to  cry 
before  her  superiors,  she  used  them  to  swallow  down 
her  tears,  and  something  in  her  lean  throat  moved 
up  and  down. 

At  the  mention  of  Hilary's  name  the  pleasurable 
sensation  in  Cecilia  had  undergone  a  change.  She 
felt  curiosity,  fear,  offence. 

**I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  she  said. 

The  seamstress  plaited  her  at  frock.  *'0f  course,  I 
can't  help  the  way  he  talks,  m'm.  I  'm  sure  I  don't 
like  to  repeat  the  wicked  things  he  says  about  Mr. 
Hilary.  It  seems  as  if  he  were  out  of  his  mind  when 
he  gets  talkin'  about  that  young  girV 

The  tone  of  those  last  three  words  was  almost 
fierce. 

Cecilia  was  on  the  point  of  saying:  "That  will  do, 


Cecilia's  Scattered  Thoug!:^        71 

please;  I  want  to  hear  no  more."  But  he  curiosity 
and  queer  subtle  fear  forced  her  instead  to  -epeat:  **I 
don*t  understand.  Do  you  mean  he  insif  lates  that 
Mr.  Hilary  has  anything  to  do  with — with  ^'ais  girl,  or 
what?"  And  she  thought:  **I  *1I  stop  tl^  :t,  at  any 
rate." 

The  seamstress's  face  was  distorted  by  h^x  efforts  to 
control  her  voice. 

*'I  tell  him  he  *s  wicked  to  say  such  things,  m'm, 
and  Mr.  Hilary  such  a  kind  gentleman.  And  what 
business  is  it  of  his,  I  say,  that  *s  got  a  wife  and  chil- 
dren of  his  own?  I  've  seen  him  in  the  street,  I  *ve 
watched  him  hanging  about  Mrs.  Hilary's  house  when 
I  've  been  working  there — ^waiting  for  that  girl,  and 

following  her — ^home "     Again  her  lips  refused 

to  do  service,  except  in  the  swallowing  of  her  tears. 

Cecilia  thought:  **I  must  tell  Stephen  at  once. 
That  man  is  dangerous.*'  A  spasm  gripped  her  heart, 
usually  so  warm  and  snug;  vague  feelings  she  had 
already  entertained  presented  themselves  now  with 
startling  force;  she  seemed  to  see  the  face  of  S(7'rdid 
life  staring  at  the  family  of  Dallison.  Mrs.  Hugns's 
voice,  which  did  not  dare  to  break,  resumed : 

**I  've  said  to  him:  'Whatever  are  you  thinking  of? 
And  after  Mrs.  Hilary  's  been  so  kind  to  me!'  But 
he  's  like  a  madman  when  he  's  in  liquor,  and  he  says 
he  *11  go  to  Mrs.  Hilary " 

'  *  Go  to  my  sister  ?    What  about  ?    The  ruffian ! " 

At  hearing  her  husband  called  a  ruffian  by  another 
woman  the  shadow  of  resentment  passed  across  Mrs. 
Hughs's  face  leaving  it  quivering  and  red.  The  con- 
versation had  already  made  a  strange  difference  in 
the  manner  of  these  two  women  to  each  other.     It 


72  Fraternity 

was  as  though  each  now  knew  exactly  how  much 
sympathy  and  confidence  could  be  expected  of  the 
other,  as  though  life  had  suddenly  sucked  up  the  mist 
and  shown  them  standing  one  on  either  side  of  a  deep 
trench.  I;;t  Mrs.  Hughs's  eyes  there  was  the  look  of 
those  who  have  long  discovered  that  they  must  not 
answer  bac^c  for  fear  of  losing  what  little  ground  they 
have  to  stand  on;  and  Cecilia's  eyes  were  cold  and 
watchful.  **I  sympathise,"  they  seemed  to  say,  "I 
sympathise ;  but  you  must  please  understand  that  you 
cannot  expect  sympathy  if  your  affairs  compromise 
the  members  of  my  family.*'  Her  chief  thought  now 
was  to  be  relieved  of  the  company  of  this  woman, 
who  had  been  betrayed  into  showing  what  lay  be- 
neath her  dumb,  stubborn  patience.  It  was  not 
callousness,  but  the  natural  result  of  being  fluttered. 
Her  heart  was  like  a  bird,  agitated  in  its  gilt-wire 
cage  by  the  contemplation  of  a  distant  cat.  She 
did  not,  however,  lose  her  sense  of  what  was  practical, 
but  said  calmly:  **Your  husband  was  wounded  in 
South  Africa,  you  told  me?  It  looks  as  if  he  was  n't 
quite.  ...     I  think  you  should  have  a  doctor!" 

The  seamstress's  answer,  slow  and  matter-of-fact, 
was  worse  than  her  emotion. 

'*No,  m'm,  he  is  n't  mad." 

Crossing  to  the  hearth — -whose  Persian-blue  tiling 
had  taken  her  so  long  to  find — Cecilia  stood  be- 
neath a  reproduction  of  Botticelli's  Primavera  and 
looked  doubtfully  at  Mrs.  Hughs.  The  Persian  kitten, 
sleepy  and  disturbed  on  the  bosom  of  her  blouse,  gazed 
up  into  her  face.  ''Consider  me,"  it  seemed  to  say; 
**I  am  worth  consideration;  I  am  of  a  piece  with  you, 
and  everything  round  you.     We  are  both  elegant  and 


Cecilia's  Scattered  Thoughts        73 

rather  slender;  we  both  love  warmth  and  kittens; 
we  both  dislike  interference  with  our  fur.  You  took 
a  long  time  to  buy  me,  so  as  to  get  me  perfect.  You 
see  that  woman  over  there!  I  sat  on  her  lap  this 
morning  while  she  was  sewing  your  curtains.  She 
has  no  right  in  here;  she  's  not  what  she  seems;  she 
can  bite  and  scratch,  I  know;  her  lap  is  skinny;  she 
drops  water  from  her  eyes.  She  made  me  wet  all 
down  my  back.  Be  careful  what  you  're  doing,  or 
she  '11  make  you  wet  down  yours!" 

All  that  was  like  the  little  Persian  kitten  within 
Cecilia — cosiness  and  love  of  pretty  things,  attach- 
ment to  her  own  abode  with  its  high-art  lining,  love 
for  her  mate  and  her  own  kitten,  Thyme,  dread  of 
disturbance — ^all  made  her  long  to  push  this  woman 
from  the  room;  this  woman  with  the  skimpy  figure, 
and  eyes  that,  for  all  their  patience,  had  in  them 
something  virago-like ;  this  woman  who  carried  about 
with  her  an  atmosphere  of  sordid  grief,  of  squalid 
menaces,  and  scandal.  She  longed  all  the  more 
because  it  could  be  well  seen  from  the  seamstress's 
helpless  attitude  that  she  too  would  have  liked  an 
easy  life.  To  dwell  on  things  like  this  was  to  feel  more 
than  thirty-eight! 

Cecelia  had  no  pocket,  Providence  having  removed 
it  now  for  some  time  past,  but  from  her  little  bag  she 
drew  forth  the  two  essentials  of  gentility.  Taking 
her  nose,  which  she  feared  was  shining,  gently  within 
one,  she  fumbled  in  the  other.  And  again  she  looked 
doubtfully  at  Mrs.  Hughs.  Her  heart  said:  *'Give 
the  poor  woman  half  a  sovereign;  it  might  comfort 
her!"  But  her  brain  said:  **I  owe  her  four-and-six; 
after  what  she'  s  just  been  saying  about  her  husband 


74  Fraternity 

and  that  girl  and  Hilary,  it  may  n't  be  safe  to  give  her 
more."  She  held  out  two  half-crowns,  and  had  an 
inspiration:  '*I  shall  mention  to  my  sister  what 
you  've  said;  you  can  tell  your  husband  that!" 

No  sooner  had  she  said  this,  however,  than  she 
saw,  from  a  little  smile  devoid  of  merriment  and 
quickly  extinguished,  that  Mrs.  Hughs  did  not  believe 
she  would  do  anything  of  the  kind;  from  which  she 
concluded  that  the  seamstress  was  convinced  of  Hil- 
ary's interest  in  the  little  model.     She  said  hastily: 

**  You  can  go  now,  Mrs.  Hughs." 

Mrs.  Hughs  went,  making  no  noise  or  sign  of  any 
sort. 

Cecilia  returned  to  her  scattered  thoughts.  They 
lay  still  there,  with  a  gleam  of  sun  from  the  low  window 
smearing  their  importance;  she  felt  somehow  that  it 
did  not  now  matter  very  much  whether  she  and 
Stephen,  in  the  interests  of  science,  saw  that  man  fall 
from  his  balloon,  or,  in  the  interests  of  art,  heard 
Herr  von  Kraaffe  sing  his  Polish  songs ;  she  experienced 
too,  almost  a  revulsion  in  favour  of  tinned  milk. 
After  meditatively  tearing  up  her  note  to  Messrs. 
Rose  and  Thorn,  she  lowered  the  bureau  lid  and  left 
the  room. 

Mounting  the  atairs,  whose  old  oak  banisters  on 
either  side  were  a  real  joy,  she  felt  she  was  stupid  to 
let  vague,  sordid  rumours,  which,  after  all,  affected 
her  but  indirectly,  disturb  her  morning's  work. 
And  entering  Stephen's  dressing-room,  she  stood 
looking  at  his  boots. 

Inside  each  one  of  them  was  a  wooden  soul;  none 
had  any  creases,  none  had  any  holes.  The  moment 
they  wore  out,  their  wooden  souls  were  taken  from 


Cecilia's  Scattered  Thoughts        75 

them  and  their  bodies  given  to  the  poor,  whilst — 
in  accordance  with  that  theory,  to  hear  a  course 
of  lectures  on  which  a  scattered  thought  was  even 
now  inviting  her — ^the  wooden  souls  migrated  instantly 
to  other  leathern  bodies. 

Looking  at  that  polished  row  of  boots,  Cecilia 
felt  lonely  and  unsatisfied.  Stephen  worked  in  the 
Law  Courts,  Thyme  worked  at  Art;  both  were  doing 
something  definite.  She  alone,  it  seemed,  had  to 
wait  at  home,  and  order  dinner,  answer  letters,  shop, 
pay  calls,  and  do  a  dozen  things  that  failed  to  stop 
her  thoughts  from  dwelling  on  that  woman's  tale. 
She  was  not  often  conscious  of  the  nature  of  her  life, 
so  like  the  lives  of  many  hundred  women  in  this 
London,  which  she  said  she  could  not  stand,  but  which 
she  stood  very  well.  As  a  rule,  with  practical  good 
sense,  she  kept  her  doubting  eyes  fixed  friendly  on 
every  little  phase  in  turn,  enjoying  well  enough  fitting 
the  Chinese  puzzle  of  her  scattered  thoughts,  setting 
out  on  each  small  adventure  with  a  certain  cautious 
zest,  and  taking  Stephen  with  her  as  far  as  he  allowed. 
This  last  year  or  so,  now  that  Thyme  was  a  grown 
girl,  she  had  felt  at  once  a  loss  of  purpose  and  a  gain 
of  liberty.  She  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  glad  or 
sorry.  It  freed  her  for  the  tasting  of  more  things, 
more  people,  and  more  Stephen;  but  it  left  a  little 
void  in  her  heart,  a  little  soreness  round  it.  What 
would  Thyme  think  if  she  heard  this  story  about  her 
uncle?  The  thought  started  a  whole  train  of  doubts 
that  had  of  late  beset  her.  Was  her  little  daughter 
going  to  turn  out  like  herself?  If  not,  why  not? 
Stephen  joked  about  his  daughter's  skirts,  her  hockey, 
her  friendship  with  young  men.     He  joked  about  the 


76  Fraternity 

way  Thyme  refused  to  let  him  joke  about  her  art  or 
about  her  interest  in  "the  people.*'  His  joking  was 
a  source  of  irritation  to  Cecilia.  For,  by  woman's 
instinct  rather  than  by  any  reasoning  process,  she 
was  conscious  of  a  disconcerting  change.  Amongst 
the  people  she  knew,  young  men  were  not  now  at- 
tracted by  girls  as  they  had  been  in  her  young  days. 
There  was  a  kind  of  cool  and  friendly  matter-of-fact- 
ness  in  the  way  they  treated  them,  a  sort  of  almost 
scientific  playfulness.  And  Cecilia  felt  uneasy  as  to 
how  far  this  was  to  go.  She  seemed  left  behind.  If 
young  people  were  really  becoming  serious,  if  youths 
no  longer  cared  about  the  colour  of  Thyme's  eyes,  or 
dress,  or  hair,  what  would  there  be  left  to  care  for, 
— ^that  is,  up  to  the  point  of  definite  relationship? 
Not  that  she  wanted  her  daughter  to  be  married.  It 
would  be  time  enough  to  think  of  that  when  she  was 
twenty-five.  But  her  own  experiences  had  been  so 
different.  She  had  spent  so  many  youthful  hours  in 
wondering  about  men;  had  seen  so  many  men  cast 
furtive  looks  at  her;  and  now  there  did  not  seem 
in  men  or  girls  anything  left  worth  the  other's  while 
to  wonder  or  look  furtive  about.  She  was  not  of  a 
philosophic  turn  of  mind,  and  had  attached  no  deep 
meaning  to  Stephen's  jest — '*If  young  people  will 
reveal  their  ankles,  they  '11  soon  have  no  ankles  to 
reveal.'* 

To  Cecilia  the  extinction  of  the  race  seemed 
threatened ;  in  reality  her  species  of  the  race  alone  was 
vanishing,  which  to  her,  of  course,  was  very  much  the 
same  disaster.  With  her  eyes  on  Stephen's  boots  she 
thought:  **  How  shall  I  prevent  what  I  've  heard  from 
coming  to  Bianca's  ears.     I  know  how  she  would  take 


Cecilia's  Scattered  Thoughts        77 

it !  How  shall  I  prevent  Thyme's  hearing  ?  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  what  the  effect  would  be  on  her  I  I 
must  speak  to  Stephen.     He  's  so  fond  of  Hilary.'* 

And,  turning  away  from  Stephen's  boots,  she 
mused:  **0f  course  it's  nonsense.  Hilary's  much 
too — ^too  nice,  too  fastidious,  to  be  more  than  just 
interested;  but  he  's  so  kind  he  might  easily  put  him- 
self in  a  false  position.  And — ^it's  ugly  nonsense! 
B.  can  be  so  disagreeable;  even  now  she's  not — on 
terms  with  him!"  And  suddenly  the  thought  of  Mr. 
Purcey  leaped  into  her  mind — ^Mr.  Purcey,  who, 
as  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  had  declared,  was  not 
even  conscious  that  there  was  a  problem  of  the  poor. 
To  think  of  him  seemed  somehow  at  that  moment 
comforting,  like  rolling  oneself  in  a  blanket  against 
a  draught.  Passing  into  her  room,  she  opened  her 
wardrobe  door, 

**Botherthe  woman!"  she  thought.  **I  do  want 
that  gentian  dress  got  ready,  but  now  I  simply  can't 
give  it  to  her  to  do." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SINGLE  MIND  OP  MR.  STONE 

SINCE  in  the  flutter  of  her  spirit  caused  by  the 
words  of  Mrs.  Hughs  Cecilia  felt  she  must  do 
something,  she  decided  to  change  her  dress. 

The  furniture  of  the  pretty  room  she  shared  with 
Stephen  had  not  been  hastily  assembled.  Conscious, 
even  fifteen  years  ago,  when  they  moved  into  this 
house,  of  the  grave  Philistinism  of  the  upper  classes, 
she  and  Stephen  had  ever  kept  their  duty  to  aestheti- 
cism  green;  and,  in  the  matter  of  their  bed,  had  lain 
for  two  years  on  two  little  white  affairs,  comfortable, 
but  purely  temporary,  that  they  might  give  themselves 
a  chance.  The  chance  had  come  at  last — a  bed  in 
real  keeping  with  the  period  they  had  settled  on,  and 
going  for  twelve  pound's.  They  had  not  let  it  go,  and 
now  slept  in  it — ^not  quite  so  comfortable,  perhaps, 
but  comfortable  enough,  and  conscious  of  duty 
done. 

For  fifteen  years  Cecilia  had  been  furnishing  her 
house;  the  process  approached  completion.  The  only 
things  remaining  on  her  mind — ^apart,  that  is,  from 
Thyme's  development  and  the  condition  of  the  people 
— ^were :  item,  a  copper  lantern  that  would  allow  some 
light  to  pass  its  framework;  item,  an  old  oak  wash- 
stand  not  going  back  to  Cromwell's  time.  And  now 
this  third  anxiety  had  come! 

She  was  rather  touching,  as  she  stood  before  the 

.78 


The  Single  Mind  of  Mr.  Stone      79 

wardrobe  glass  divested  of  her  bodice,  with  dimples 
of  exertion  in  her  thin  white  arms  as  she  hooked  her 
skirt  behind,  and  her  greenish  eyes  troubled,  so 
anxious  to  do  their  best  for  everyone,  and  save  risk 
of  any  sort.  Having  put  on  a  bramble-coloured 
frock,  which  laced  across  her  breast  with  silver 
lattice-work,  and  a  hat  (without  feathers,  so  as  to 
encourage  birds)  fastened  to  her  head  with  pins 
(bought  to  aid  a  novel  school  of  metal-work),  she 
went  to  see  what  sort  of  day  it  was. 

The  window  looked  out  at  the  back  over  some 
dreary  streets,  where  the  wind  was  flinging  light 
drifts  of  smoke  athwart  the  sunlight.  They  had 
chosen  this  room,  not  indeed  for  its  view  over  the 
condition  of  the  people,  but  because  of  the  sky 
effects  at  sunset,  which  were  extremely  fine.  For 
the  first  time,  perhaps,  Cecilia  was  conscious  that  a 
sample  of  the  class  she  was  so  interested  in  was  ex- 
posed to  view  beneath  her  nose.  **The  Hughs  live 
somewhere  there,'*  she  thought.  **  After  all,  I  think 
B.  ought  to  know  about  that  man.  She  might  speak 
to  father,  and  get  him  to  give  up  having  the  girl  to 
copy  for  him — the  whole  thing  's  so  worrying." 

In  pursuance  of  this  thought,  she  lunched  hastily, 
and  went  out,  making  her  way  to  Hilary's.  With 
every  step  she  became  more  uncertain.  The  fear 
of  meddling  too  much,  of  not  meddling  enough,  of 
seeming  meddlesome;  timidity  at  touching  anything  so 
awkward;  distrust,  even  ignorance,  of  her  sister's 
character,  which  was  like,  yet  so  very  unlike,  her 
own;  a  real  itch  to  get  the  matter  settled,  so  that 
nothing  whatever  should  come  of  it — all  this  she  felt. 
She  first  hurried,  then  dawdled,  finished  the  adventure 


8o  Fraternity 

at  a  run,  then  told  the  servant  not  to  announce  her. 
The  vision  of  Bianca's  eyes  as  she  listened  to  this 
tale  was  suddenly  too  much  for  Cecilia.  She  decided 
to  pay  a  visit  to  her  father  first. 

Mr.  Stone  was  writing,  attired  in  his  working  dress 
— 2i  thick  brown  woollen  gown,  revealing  his  thin 
neck  above  the  line  of  a  blue  shirt,  and  tightly  gathered 
round  the  waist  with  tasselled  cord;  the  lower  por- 
tions of  grey  trousers  were  visible  above  woollen- 
slippered  feet.  His  hair  straggled  over  his  thin  long 
ears.  The  window,  wide  open,  admitted  an  east  wind ; 
there  was  no  fire.     Cecilia  shivered. 

**Come  in  quickly,''  said  Mr.  Stone.  Turning  to  a 
big  high  desk  of  stained  deal  which  occupied  the 
middle  of  one  wall,  he  began  methodically  to  place  the 
inkstand,  a  heavy  paper-knife,  a  book,  and  stones  of 
several  sizes,  on  his  fluttering  sheets  of  manuscript. 

Cecilia  looked  about  her ;  she  had  not  been  inside 
her  father's  room  for  several  months.  There  was 
nothing  in  it  but  that  desk,  a  camp  bed  in  the  far 
corner  (with  blankets,  but  no  sheets) ,  a  folding  wash- 
stand,  and  a  narrow  bookcase,  the  books  in  which 
Cecilia  unconsciously  told  off  on  the  fingers  of  her 
memory.  They  never  varied.  On  the  top  shelf  the 
Bible  and  the  works  of  Plautus  and  Diderot;  on  the 
second  from  the  top  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  in  a 
blue  edition;  on  the  third  from  the  bottom  Don 
Quixote,  in  four  volumes,  covered  with  brown  paper; 
a  green  Milton;  the  Comedies  of  Aristophanes;  a 
leather  book,  partially  burned,  comparing  the  philoso- 
phy of  Epicurus  with  the  philosophy  of  Spinoza; 
and  in  a  yellow  binding  Mark  Twain's  Huckleberry 
Finn,     On  the  second  from  the  bottom  was  lighter 


The  Single  Mind  of  Mr.  Stone      81 

literature:  The  Iliad;  a  Life  of  Francis  of  Assist; 
Speke's  Discovery  of  the  Sources  of  the  Nile;  the 
Pickwick  Papers;  Mr.  Midshipman  Easy;  The 
Verses  of  Theocritus,  in  a  very  old  translation; 
Renan's  Life  of  Christ;  and  the  Autobiography  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  The  bottom  shelf  of  all  was  full 
of  books  on  natural  science. 

The  walls  were  whitewashed,  and,  as  Cecilia  knew, 
came  off  on  anybody  who  leaned  against  them.  The 
floor  was  stained,  and  had  no  carpet.  There  was  a 
little  gas  cooking-stove,  with  cooking  things  ranged 
on  it ;  a  small  bare  table ;  and  one  large  cupboard.  No 
draperies,  no  pictures,  no  ornaments  of  any  kind; 
but  by  the  window  an  ancient  golden  leather  chair. 
Cecilia  could  never  bear  to  sit  in  that  oasis;  its 
colour  in  this  wilderness  was  too  precious  to  her 
spirit. 

**It  *s  an  east  wind,  Father;  are  n*t  you  terribly  cold 
Hyithout  a  fire?*' 

Mr.  Stone  came  from  his  writing-desk,  and  stood  so 
that  light  might  fall  on  a  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand. 
Cecilia  noted  the  scent  that  went  about  with  him  of 
peat  and  baked  potatoes.     He  spoke: 

"Listen  to  this:  *In  the  condition  of  society,  digni- 
fied in  those  days  with  the  name  of  civilisation,  the 
only  source  of  hope  was  the  persistence  of  the  quality 
of  courage.  Amongst  a  thousand  nerve-destroying 
habits,  amongst  the  dram-shops,  patent  medicines, 
the  undigested  chaos  of  inventions  and  discoveries, 
while  hundreds  were  prating  in  their  pulpits  of  things 
believed  in  by  a  negligible  fraction  of  the  population 
and  thousands  writing  down  to-day  what  nobody 
would  want  to  read  in  two  days'  time;  while  men  shut 

6 


82  Fraternity 

animals  in  cages,  and  made  bears  jig  to  please  their 
children,  and  all  were  striving  one  against  the  other; 
while,  in  a  word,  like  gnats  above  a  stagnant  pool  on  a 
summer's  evening,  man  danced  up  and  down  with- 
out the  faintest  notion  why — in  this  condition  of 
affairs  the  quality  of  courage  was  alive.  It  was  the 
only  fire  within  that  gloomy  valley.'  "  He  stopped, 
though  evidently  anxious  to  go  on,  because  he  had 
read  the  last  word  on  that  sheet  of  paper.  He  moved 
towards  the  writing-desk.     Cecilia  said  hastily: 

**Do  you  mind  if  I  shut  the  window,  Father?'* 

Mr.  Stone  made  a  movement  of  his  head,  and  Cecilia 
saw  that  he  held  a  second  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand. 
She  rose,  and,  going  towards  him,  said: 

**I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Dad!"  Taking  up  the  cord 
of  his  dressing-gown,  she  pulled  it  by  its  tassel. 

** Don't!"  said  Mr.  Stone;  *'it  secures  my  trousers." 

Cecilia  dropped  the  cord.  ''Father  is  really  terri- 
ble!" she  thought. 

Mr.  Stone,  lifting  the  second  sheet  of  paper,  began 
again: 

'*'The  reason,  however,  was  not  far  to  seek '" 

Cecilia  said  desperately: 

**It  's  about  that  girl  who  comes  to  copy  for  you." 

Mr.  Stone  lowered  the  sheet  of  paper,  and  stood, 
slightly  curved  from  head  to  foot;  his  ears  moved  as 
though  he  were  about  to  lay  them  back ;  his  blue  eyes, 
with  little  white  spots  of  light  alongside  the  tiny 
black  pupils,  stared  at  his  daughter. 

Cecilia  thought:  "  He  's  listening  now/' 

She  made  haste.  ''Must  you  have  her  here? 
Can't  you  do  without  her?" 

"Without  whom?"  said  Mr.  Stone, 


The  Single  Mind  of  Mr.  Stone      83 

"Without  the  girl  who  comes  to  copy  for  you.** 

**W&y?*' 
For  this  very  good  reason '* 

Mr.  Stone  dropped  his  eyes,  and  Cecilia  saw  that  he 
had  moved  the  sheet  of  paper  up  as  far  as  his  waist. 

"Does  she  copy  better  than  any  other  girl  could?** 
she  asked  hastily.  H 

*'No.'*  said  Mr.  Stone.  ' 

**Then,  Father,  I  do  wish,  to  please  me,  you  *d  get 
someone  else.     I  know  what  I  *m  talking  about,  and 

I "     Cecilia  stopped;  her  father's  lips  and  eyes 

were  moving;  he  was  obviously  reading  to  himself. 
"I  *ve  no  patience  with  him,'*  she  thought;  **he 
thinks  of  nothing  but  this  wretched  book.'* 

Aware  of  his  daughter's  silence,  Mr.  Stone  let  the 
sheet  of  paper  sink,  and  waited  patiently  again. 
What  do  you  want,  my  dear?"  he  said. 
Oh,  Father,  do  listen  just  a  minute!'* 
Yes,  yes.'* 

"It  *s  about  that  girl  who  comes  to  copy  for  you. 
Is  there  any  reason  why  she  should  come  instead  of 
any  other  girl?'* 

"Yes,**  said  Mr.  Stone. 

"What  reason?** 

"Because  she  has  no  friends.** 

So  awkward  a  reply  was  not  expected  by  Cecilia; 
she  looked  at  the  floor,  forced  to  search  within  her 
sotil.  Silence  lasted  several  seconds;  then  Mr.  Stone's 
voice  rose  above  a  whisper: 

"  *The  reason  was  not  far  to  seek.  Man,  differen- 
tiated from  the  other  apes  by  his  desire  to  know, 
was  from  the  first  obliged  to  steel  himself  against 
the  penalties  of  knowledge.     Like  animals  subjected 


84  Fraternity 

to  the  rigours  of  an  Arctic  climate,  and  putting  forth 
more  fur  with  each  reduction  in  the  temperature, 
man's  hide  of  courage  thickened  automatically  to 
resist  the  spear-thrusts  dealt  him  by  his  own  insatiate 
curiosity.  In  those  days  of  which  we  speak,  when 
undigested  knowledge,  in  a  great  invading  horde,  had 
swarmed  all  his  defences,  man,  suffering  from  a  foul 
dyspepsia,  with  a  nervous  system  in  the  latest  stages 
of  exhaustion,  and  a  reeling  brain,  survived  by  reason 
of  his  power  to  go  on  making  courage.  Little  heroic 
as  (in  the  then  general  state  of  petty  competition) 
his  deeds  appeared  to  be,  there  never  had  been  a  time 
when  man  in  bulk  was  more  courageous,-  for  there 
never  had  yet  been  a  time  when  he  had  more  need  to 
be.  Signs  were  not  wanting  that  this  desperate 
state  of  things  had  caught  the  eyes  of  the  community. 

A  little  sect '  "     Mr.  Stone  stopped;  his  eyes  had 

again  tumbled  over  the  bottom  edge;  he  moved 
hurriedly  towards  the  desk.  Just  as  his  hand  re- 
moved a  stone  and  took  up  a  third  sheet,  Cecilia 
cried  out: 

''Father!'* 

Mr.  Stone  stopped,  and  turned  towards  her.  His 
daughter  saw  that  he  had  gone  quite  pink ;  her  annoy- 
ance vanished. 

*  *  Father !     About  that  girl ' ' 

Mr,  Stone  seemed  to  reflect.     **  Yes,  yes,"  he  said. 

**I  don't  think  Bianca  likes  her  coming  here.*' 

Mr.  Stone  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow, 

**  Forgive  me  for  reading  to  you,  my  dear,"  he  said; 
**  it  's  a  great  relief  to  me  at  times." 

Cecilia  went  close  to  him,  and  refrained  with  diffi- 
culty from  taking  up  the  tasselled  cord. 


The  Single  Mind  of  Mr.  Stone      85 

"Of  course,  dear,"  she  said;  '*I  quite  understand 
that." 

Mr.  Stone  looked  full  in  her  face,  and  before  a  gaze 
which  seemed  to  go  through  her  and  see  things  the 
other  side,  Cecilia  dropped  her  eyes. 

**It  *s  strange,"  he  said,  **how  you  came  to  be  my 
daughter!" 

To  Cecilia,  too,  this  had  often  seemed  a  problem. 

** There  is  a  great  deal  in  atavism,"  said  Mr.  Stone, 
**  that  we  know  nothing  of  at  present." 

Cecilia  cried  with  heat:  **  I  do  wish  you  would  attend 
a  minute.  Father;  it's  really  an  important  matter," 
and  she  turned  towards  the  window,  tears  being  very 
near  her  eyes. 

The  voice  of  Mr.  Stone  said  humbly:  **I  will  try, 
my  dear." 

But  Cecilia  thought:  "I  must  give  him  a  good 
lesson.  He  really  is  too  self-absorbed;"  and  she  did 
not  move,  conveying  by  the  posture  of  her  shoulders 
how  gravely  she  was  vexed. 

She  could  see  nursemaids  wheeling  babies  towards 
the  Gardens,  and  noted  their  faces  gazing,  not  at  the 
babies,  but,  uppishly,  at  other  nursemaids,  or,  with  a 
sort  of  cautious  longing,  at  men  who  passed.  How 
selfish  they  looked !  She  felt  a  little  glow  of  satisfac- 
tion that  she  was  making  this  thin  and  bent  old  man 
behind  her  conscious  of  his  egoism. 

**He  will  know  better  another  time,'*  she  thought. 
Suddenly  she  heard  a  whistling,  squeaking  sound — it 
was  Mr.  Stone  whispering  the  third  page  of  his  manu- 
script : 

**  * — ^animated  by  some  admirable  sentiments,  but 
whose  doctrines — ^riddled  by  the  fact  that  life  is  but 


86  Fraternity 

the  change  of  form  to  form — ^were  too  constricted  for 
the  evils  they  designed  to  remedy;  this  little  sect,  who 
^  had  as  yet  to  learn  the  meaning  of  universal  love,  were 
making  the  most  strenuous  efforts,  in  advance  of 
the  community  at  large,  to  understand  themselves. 
The  necessary  movement  which  they  voiced — reaction 
against  the  high-tide  of  the  fratricidal  system  then 
prevailing — ^was  young,  and  had  the  freshness  and 
honesty  of  youth ....'" 

Without  a  word  Cecilia  turned  round  and  hurried 
to  the  door.  She  saw  her  father  drop  the  sheet  of 
paper;  she  saw  his  face,  all  pink  and  silver,  stooping 
after  it;  and  remorse  visited  her  anger. 

In  the  corridor  outside  she  was  arrested  by  a  noise. 
The  uncertain  light  of  London  halls  fell  there;  on 
close  inspection  the  sufferer  was  seen  to  be  Miranda, 
who,  unable  to  decide  whether  she  wanted  to  be  in 
the  garden  or  the  house,  was  seated  beneath  the  hat- 
rack  snuffling  to  herself.  On  seeing  Cecilia  she  came 
out. 

**What  do  you  want,  you  little  beast?" 

Peering  at  her  over  the  tops  of  her  eyes,  Miranda 
vaguely  lifted  a  white  foot.  **Why  ask  me  that?*' 
she  seemed  to  say.  **How  am  I  to  know?  Are  we 
not  all  like  this?** 

Her  conduct,  coming  at  that  moment,  overtried 
Cecilia's  nerves.  She  threw  open  Hilary's  study- 
door,  saying  sharply:  **Go  in  and  find  your  master!" 

Miranda  did  not  move,  but  Hilary  came  out  instead. 
He  had  been  correcting  proofs  to  catch  the  post,  and 
wore  the  look  of  a  man  abstracted,  faintly  con- 
temptuous of  other  forms  of  life. 

Cecilia,  once  more  saved    from  the  necessity  of 


The  Single  Mind  of  Mr.  Stone      87 

approaching  her  sister,  the  mistress  of  the  house,  so 
fugitive,  haunting,  and  unseen,  yet  so  much  the  centre 
of  this  situation,  said : 

**Can  I  speak  to  you  a  minute,  Hilary?" 

They  went  into  his  study,  and  Miranda  came  creep- 
ing in  behind. 

To  Cecilia  her  brother-in-law  always  seemed  an 
amiable  and  more  or  less  pathetic  figure.  In  his 
literary  preoccupations  he  allowed  people  to  impose 
on  him.  He  looked  unsubstantial  beside  the  bust  of 
Socrates,  which  moved  Cecilia  strangely — ^it  wi^  so 
very  massive  and  so  very  ugly!  She  decided  not  to 
beat  about  the  bush. 

**I  Ve  been  hearing  some  odd  things  from  Mrs. 
Hughs  about  that  little  model,  Hilary.** 

Hilary's  smile  faded  from  his  eyes,  but  remained 
clinging  to  his  lips. 

•'Indeed!*' 

Cecilia  went  on  nervously:  **Mr8.  Hughs  says  it  *s 
because  of  her  that  Hughs  behaves  so  badly.  I  don't 
want  to  say  anything  against  the  girl,  but  she  seems — 
she  seems  to  have ** 

"Yes?"  said  Hilary. 

"To  have  cast  a  spell  on  Hughs,  as  the  woman 
puts  it.** 

**0n  Hughs!'*  repeated  Hilary. 

Cecilia  found  her  eyes  resting  on  the  bust  of  Socrates, 
and  hastily  proceeded: 

**She  says  he  follows  her  about,  and  comes  down 
here  to  lie  in  wait  for  her.  It  *s  a  most  strange  busi- 
ness altogether.     You  went  to  see  them,  did  n't  you  ? ' ' 

Hilary  nodded. 

**I*ve   been    speaking   to    father."   Cecilia   mur- 


88  Fraternity 

mured;  "but  he  's  hopeless— I  couldn't  get  him  to 
pay  the  least  attention.*' 

Hilary  seemed  thinking  deeply. 

"I  wanted  him,*'  she  went  on,  "to  get  some  other 
girl  instead  to  come  and  copy  for  him. " 

"Why?" 

Under  the  seeming  impossibility  of  ever  getting  any 
farther,  without  saying  what  she  had  come  to  say, 
Cecilia  blurted  out: 

"Mrs.  Hughs  says  that  Hughs  has  threatened 
you. " 

Hilary's  face  became  ironical. 

"  Really !  *  *  he  said.  "  That  *s  good  of  him !  What 
for?*' 

The  frightful  indelicacy  of  her  situation  at  this 
moment,  the  feeling  of  unfairness  that  she  should  be 
placed  in  it,  almost  overwhelmed  Cecilia.  "  Goodness 
knows  I  don't  want  to  meddle.  I  never  meddle  in 
anything — it  *s  horrible !  * ' 

Hilary  took  her  hand. 

"My  dear  Cis,"  he  said,  "of  course!  But  we'd 
better  have  this  out!'* 

Grateful  for  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  she  gave  it  a 
convulsive  squeeze. 

''It's  so  sordid,  Hilary!" 

"  Sordid !     H  'm !     Let  *s  get  it  over,  then. '! 

Cecilia  had  grown  crimson.  **Do  you  want  me  to 
tell  you  everything?" 

"Certainly.** 

"Well,  Hughs  evidently  thinks  you're  inter- 
ested in  the  girl.  You  can't  keep  anjrthing 
from  servants  and  people  who  work  about  your 
house;  they  always  think   the  worst  of  everything 


The  Single  Mind  of  Mr.  Stone     89 

—and,  of  course,  they  know  that  you  and  B. 
don't — are  n't V' 

Hilary  nodded. 

"Mrs.  Hughs  actually  said  the  man  meant  to  go 
toB.!" 

Again  the  vision  of  her  sister  seemed  to  float  into 
the  room,  and  she  went  on  desperately:  **  And,  Hilary, 
I  can  see  Mrs.  Hughs  really  thinks  you  are  interested. 
Of  course,  she  wants  to,  for  if  you  were,  it  would  mean 
that  a  man  like  her  husband  could  have  no 
chance." 

Astonished  at  this  flash  of  cynical  inspiration,  and 
ashamed  of  such  plain  speaking,  she  checked  herself. 
Hilary  had  turned  away. 

Cecilia  touched  his  arm.  "  Hilary,  dear, "  she  said, 
"is  n't  there  any  chance  of  you  and  B ?" 

Hilary's  lips  twitched.     "I  should  say  not. " 

Cecilia  looked  sadly  at  the  floor.  Not  since  Stephen 
was  bad  with  pleurisy  had  she  felt  so  worried.  The 
sight  of  Hilary's  face  brought  back  her  doubts  with 
all  their  force.  It  might,  of  course,  be  only  anger  at 
the  man's  impudence,  but  it  might  be — she  hardly 
liked  to  frame  her  thought — a  more  personal  feeling. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  said,  "that,  anyway,  she 
had  better  not  come  here  again?". 

Hilary  paced  the  room. 

"  It 's  her  only  safe  and  certain  piece  of  work ;  it 
keeps  her  independent.  It  's  much  more  satisfactory 
than  this  sitting.  I  can't  have  any  hand  in  taking  it 
away  from  her. " 

Cecilia  had  never  seen  him  moved  like  this.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  was  not  incorrigibly  gentle,  but  had 
in  him  some  of  that  animality  which  she,  in  a  sense, 


90  Fraternity 

admired?  This  uncertainty  terribly  increased  the 
difficulties  of  the  situation. 

"But,  Hilary,**  she  said  at  last,  "are  you  satisfied 
about  the  girl — I  mean,  are  you  satisfied  that  she 
really  is  worth  helping?'* 

"  I  don't  understand. " 

" I  mean, **  murmured  Cecilia,  "that  we  don't  know 
anything  about  her  past.*'  And,  seeing  from  the 
movement  of  his  eyebrows  that  she  was  touching  on 
what  had  evidently  been  a  doubt  with  him,  she  went 
on  with  great  courage:  "Where  are  her  friends  and 
relations?  I  mean,  she  may  have  had  a — adven- 
tures.*' 

Hilary  withdrew  into  himself. 

"You  can  hardly  expect  me,"  he  said,  "to  go  into 
that  with  her.*' 

His  reply  made  Cecilia  feel  ridiculous. 

"Well,**  she  said  in  a  hard  little  voice,  "if  this  is 
what  comes  of  helping  the  poor,  I  don't  see  the  use 
of  it.** 

The  outburst  evoked  no  reply  from  Hilary;  she  felt 
more  tremulous  than  ever.  The  whole  thing  was  so 
confused,  so  unnatural.  What  with  the  dark,  malig- 
nant Hughs  and  that  haunting  vision  of  Bianca,  the 
matter  seemed  almost  Italian.  That  a  man  of  Hughs's 
class  might  be  affected  by  the  passion  of  love  had 
somehow  never  come  into  her  head.  She  thought  of 
the  back  streets  she  had  looked  out  on  from  her  bed- 
rooip  window.  Could  anything  like  passion  spring  up 
in  those  dismal  alleys?  The  people  who  lived  there, 
poor  down-trodden  things,  had  enough  to  do  to  keep 
themselves  alive.  She  knew  all  about  them;  they 
were  in  the  air ;  their  condition  was  deplorable !    Could 


The  Single  Mind  of  Mr.  Stone      91 

a  person  whose  condition  was  deplorable  find  time  or 
strength  for  any  sort  of  lurid  exhibition  such  as  this? 
It  was  incredible. 

She  became  aware  that  Hilary  was  speaking. 

"I  daresay  the  man  is  dangerous!** 

Hearing  her  fears  confirmed,  and  in  accordance  with 
the  secret  vein  of  hardness  which  kept  her  living,  amid 
all  her  sympathies  and  hesitations,  Cecilia  felt  sud- 
denly that  she  had  gone  as  far  as  it  was  in  her  to  go. 

"I  shall  have  no  more  to  do  with  them,"  she  said; 
'*  I  Ve  tried  my  best  for  Mrs.  Hughs.  I  know  quite 
as  good  a  needlewoman,  who  '11  be  only  too  glad  to 
come  instead.  Any  other  girl  will  do  as  well  to  copy 
father's  book.  If  you  take  my  advice,  Hilary,  you  '11 
give  up  trying  to  help  them  too." 

Hilary's  smile  puzzled  and  annoyed  her.  If  she  had 
known,  this  was  the  smile  that  stood  between  him  and 
her  sister. 

"You  may  be  right,"  he  said,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

*'  Very  well, "  said  Cecilia,  "  I  've  done  all  I  can.  I 
must  go  now.     Good-bye." 

During  her  progress  to  the  door  she  gave  one  look 
behind.  Hilary  was  standing  by  the  bust  of  Socrates. 
Her  heart  smote  her  to  leave  him  thus  embarrassed. 
But  again  the  vision  of  Bianca — fugitive  in  her  own 
house,  and  with  something  tragic  in  her  mocking 
immobility — came  to  her,  and  she  hastened  away. 

A  voice  said:  "How  are  you,  Mrs.  Dallison.?  Your 
sister  at  home?" 

Cecilia  saw  before  her  Mr.  Purcey,  rising  and  falling 
a  little  with  the  oscillation  of  his  A.i.  Damyer  as  he 
prepared  to  alight. 


92  Fraternity 

A  sense  as  of  having  just  left  a  house  visited  by 
sickness  or  misfortune  made  Cecilia  murmur: 

**  I  *m  afraid  she  's  not.  ** 

**  Bad  luck!"  said  Mr.  Purcey.  His  face  fell  as  far 
as  so  red  and  square  a  face  could  fall.  *'  I  was  hoping 
perhaps  I  might  be  allowed  to  take  them  for  a  run. 
She  's  wanting  exercise.'*  Mr.  Purcey  laid  his  hand 
on  the  flank  of  his  palpitating  car.  **  Know  these 
A.I.  Damyers,  Mrs,  Dallison?  Best  value  you 
call  get,  simply  rippin'  little  cars.  Wish  you  'd 
try  her." 

The  A.I.  Damyer,  diffusing  an  aroma  of  the 
finest  petrol,  leaped  and  trembled,  as  though 
conscious  of  her  master's  praise.  Cecilia  looked 
at  her. 

**  Yes, "  she  said,  **  she  's  very  sweet.  'J 

**  Now  do!"  said  Mr.  Purcey.  **  Let  me  give  you  a 
run — just  to  please  me,  I  mean.  I  'm  sure  you  11  like 
her.'* 

A  little  compunction,  a  little  curiosity,  a  sudden 
^  revolt  against  all  the  discomfiture  and  sordid  doubts 
she  had  been  suffering  from,  made  Cecilia  glance  softly 
at  Mr.  Purcey 's  figure;  almost  before  she  knew  it,  she 
was  seated  in  the  A.i.  Damyer.  It  trembled,  emitted 
two  small  sounds,  one  large  scent,  and  glided  forward. 
Mr.  Purcey  said: 

"That'srippin'of  you!" 

A  postman,  dog,  and  baker's  cart,  all  hurr5ring 
at  top  speed,  seemed  to  stand  still;  Cecilia  felt 
the  wind  beating  her  cheeks.  She  gave  a  little 
laugh. 

"  You  must  just  take  me  home,  please. " 

Mr.  Purcey  touched  the  chauffeur's  elbow. 


The  Single  Mind  of  Mr.  Stone      93 

"  Round  the  park, "  he  said.    '*  Let  her  have  it. " 

The  A.I.  Damyer  uttered  a  tiny  shriek.  Cecilia, 
leaning  back  in  her  padded  corner,  glanced  askance  at 
Mr.  Purcey  leaning  back  in  his;  an  unholy,  astonished 
little  smile  played  on  her  lips. 

"  What  am  I  doing?"  it  seemed  to  say.  **  The  way 
he  got  me  here—really!  And  now  I  am  here  I  'm 
just  going  to  enjoy  it!" 

There  were  no  Hughs,  no  little  model-— all  that 
sordid  life  had  vanished;  there  was  nothing  but  the 
wind  beating  her  cheeks  and  the  A.i.  Damyer  leaping 
under  her. 

Mr.  Purcey  said:  "  It  just  makes  all  the  difference  to 
me;  keeps  my  nerves  in  order. " 

**  Oh,"  Cecilia  murmured,  **  have  you  got  nerves?" 

Mr.  Purcey  smiled.  When  he  smiled  his  cheeks 
formed  two  hard  red  blocks,  his  trim  moustache  stood 
out,  and  many  little  wrinkles  ran  from  his  light  eyes. 

"Chock  full  of  them,"  he  said;  ** least  thing  upsets 
me.  Can't  bear  to  see  a  htmgry-lookin'  child,  or  any- 
thing." 

A  strange  feeling  of  admiration  for  this  man  had 
come  upon  Cecilia.  Why  could  not  she,  and  Th>Tne, 
and  Hilary,  and  Stephen,  and  all  the  people  they 
knew  and  mixed  with,  be  like  him,  so  sound  and 
healthy,  so  unravaged  by  disturbing  sympathies,  so 
innocent  of  **  social  conscience,"  so  content? 

As  though  jealous  of  these  thoughts  about  her 
master,  the  A.i.  Damyer  stopped  of  her  own 
accord. 

'* Hallo,''  said  Mr.  Purcey,  "hallo,  I  say!  Don't 
you  get  out;  she  '11  be  all  right  directly. " 

**  Oh, "  said  Cecilia,  "  thanks;  but  I  must  go  in  here, 


94  Fraternity 

anyhow;  I  think  I  11  say  good-bye.     Thank  you  so 
much.     I  have  enjoyed  it.  *' 

From  the  threshold  of  a  shop  she  locked  back. 
Mr.  Purcey,  on  foot,  was  leaning  forward  from  the 
waist,  staring  at  his  A.i.  Damyer  with  profoimd 
concentration. 


*. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HILARY  GIVES  CHASB 

THE  ethics  of  a  man  like  Hilary  were  not  those  of 
the  million  pure-bred  Purceys  of  this  life, 
founded  on  a  sense  of  property  in  this  world  and  the 
next ;  nor  were  they  precisely  the  morals  and  religion 
of  the  aristocracy,  who,  though  aestheticised  in  parts, 
quietly  used,  in  bulk,  their  fortified  position  to  graft 
on  Mr.  Purcey's  ethics  the  principle  of  '*  You  be 
damned!'!  In  the  eyes  of  the  majority  he  was  prob- 
ably an  immoral  and  irreligious  man ;  but  in  fact  his 
morals  and  religion  were  those  of  his  special  section 
of  society — the  cultivated  classes,  **  the  professors, 
the  artistic  pigs,  advanced  people,  and  all  that  sort 
of  cuckoo,*'  as  Mr.  Purcey  called  them — a  section  of 
society  supplemented  by  persons,  placed  beyond  the 
realms  of  want,  who  speculated  in  ideas. 

Had  he  been  required  to  make  a  profession  of  his 
creed  he  would  probably  have  framed  it  in  some  such 
way  as  this:  **  I  disbelieve  in  all  Church  dogmas,  and 
do  not  go  to  church ;  I  have  no  definite  ideas  about  a 
future  state,  and  do  not  want  to  have ;  but  in  a  private 
way  I  try  to  identify  myself  as  much  as  possible  with 
what  I  see  about  me,  feeling  that  if  I  could  ever  really 
be  at  one  with  the  world  I  live  in  I  should  be  happy. 
I  think  it  foolish  not  to  trust  my  senses  and  my  reason ; 
as  for  what  my  senses  and  my  reason  will  not  tell  me, 
I  assume  that  all  is  as  it  had  to  be,  for  if  one  could  get 


96  Fraternity 

to  know  the  why  of  everything,  one  would  be  the 
Universe.  I  do  not  believe  that  chastity  is  a  virtue 
in  itself,  but  only  so  far  as  it  ministers  to  the  health 
and  happiness  of  the  community.  I  do  not  believe 
that  marriage  confers  the  rights  of  ownership,  and 
I  loathe  all  public  wrangling  on  such  matters;  but  I 
am  temperamentally  averse  to  the  harming  of  my 
neighboiu-s,  if  in  reason  it  can  be  avoided.  As  to 
niahnet^,  I  think  that  to  repeat  a  bit  of  scandal,  and 
circulate  backbiting  stories,  are  worse  offences  than 
the  actions  that  gave  rise  to  them.  If  I  mentally 
condemn  a  person,  I  feel  guilty  of  moral  lapse.  I 
hate  self-assertion;  I  am  ashamed  of  self-adver- 
tisement. I  dislike  loudness  of  any  kind.  Prob- 
ably I  have  too  much  tendency  to  negation  of 
all  sorts.  Small-talk  bores  me  to  extinction,  but 
I  will  discuss  a  point  of  ethics  or  psychology  half 
the  night.  To  make  capital  out  of  a  person's 
weakness  is  repugnant  to  me.  I  want  to  be  a 
decent  man,  butr— I  really  can't  take  myself  too 
seriously. "-  ^^r^^"^"^ 

Though  he  had  preserved  his  politeness  towards  Ce- 
cilia, he  was  in  truth  angry,  and  grew  angrier  every 
minute.  He  was  angry  with  her,  himself,  and  the  man 
Hughs;  and  suffered  from  this  anger  as  only  they  can 
who  are  not  accustomed  to  the  rough-and-tumble  of 
things. 

Such  a  retiring  man  as  Hilary  was  seldom  given 
the  opportunity  for  an  obvious  display  of  chivalry. 
The  tenor  of  his  life  removed  him  from  those  situa- 
tions. Such  chivalry  as  he  displayed  was  of  a  nega- 
tive order.  And  confronted  suddenly  with  the 
conduct  of  Hughs,  who,  it  seemed,  knocked  his  wife 


Hilary  Gives  Chase  97 

about,  and  dogged  the  footsteps  of  a  helpless  girl, 
he  took  it  seriously  to  heart. 

When  the  little  model  came  walking  up  the  garden 
on  her  usual  visit,  he  fancied  her  face  looked  scared. 
Quieting  the  growling  of  Miranda,  who  from  the  first 
had  stubbornly  refused  to  know  this  girl,  he  sat  down 
with  a  book  to  wait  for  her  to  go  away.  After  sitting 
an  hour  or  more,  turning  over  pages,  and  knowing 
little  of  their  sense,  he  saw  a  man  peer  over  his  garden- 
gate.  He  was  there  for  half  a  minute,  then  lounged 
across  the  road,  and  stood  hidden  by  some  railings. 

**So?''  thought  Hilary.  *'Shall  I  go  out  and  warn 
the  fellow  to  clear  off,  or  shall  I  wait  to  see  what 
happens  when  she  goes  away?** 

He  determined  on  the  latter  course.  Presently  she 
came  out,  walking  with  her  peculiar  gait,  youthful 
and  pretty,  but  too  matter-of-fact,  and  yet,  as  it  were, 
too  purposeless  to  be  a  lady*s.  She  looked  back  at 
Hilary's  window,  and  turned  uphill. 

Hilary  took  his  hat  and  stick  and  waited.  In  half 
a  minute  Hughs  came  out  from  under  cover  of  the 
railings  and  followed.     Then  Hilary,  too,  set  forth. 

There  is  left  in  every  man  something  of  the  prime- 
val love  of  stalking.  The  delicate  Hilary,  in  cooler 
blood,  would  have  revolted  at  the  notion  of  dogging 
people's  footsteps.  He  now  experienced  the  unholy 
pleasures  of  the  chase.  Certain  that  Hughs  was 
really  following  the  girl,  he  had  but  to  keep  him  in 
sight  and  remain  unseen.  This  was  not  hard  for  a 
man  given  to  mountain-climbing,  almost  the  only 
sport  left  to  one  who  thought  it  immoral  to  hurt 
anybody  but  himself. 

Taking   advantage   of   shop-windows,   omnibuses 


98  Fraternity 

passers-by,  and  other  bits  of  cover,  he  prosecuted  the 
chase  up  the  steepy  heights  of  Campden  Hill.  But 
soon  a  nearly  fatal  check  occurred;  for,  chancing  to 
take  his  eyes  off  Hughs,  he  saw  the  little  model  re- 
turning on  her  tracks.  Ready  enough  in  physical 
emergencies,  Hilary  sprang  into  a  passing  omnibus. 
He  saw  her  stopping  before  the  window  of  a  picture- 
shop.  From  the  expression  of  her  face  and  figure, 
she  evidently  had  no  idea  that  she  was  being  followed, 
but  stood  with  a  sort  of  slack-lipped  wonder,  lost  in 
admiration  of  a  well-known  print.  Hilary  had  often 
wondered  who  could  possibly  admire  that  picture — • 
he  now  knew.  It  was  obvious  that  the  girl's  aesthetic 
sense  was  deeply  touched. 

While  this  was  passing  through  his  mind,  he  caught 
sight  of  Hughs  lurking  outside  a  public-house.  The 
dark  man's  face  was  sullen  and  dejected,  and  looked 
as  if  he  suffered.     Hilary  felt  a  sort  of  pity  for  him. 

The  omnibus  leaped  forward,  and  he  sat  down 
smartly  almost  on  a  lady's  lap.  This  was  the  lap  of 
Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace,  who  greeted  him  with  a 
warm,  quiet  smile,  and  made  a  little  room. 

"Your  sister-in-law  has  just  been  to  see  me,  Mr. 
Dallison.  She  's  such  a  dear — so  interested  in  every- 
thing. I  tried  to  get  her  to  come  on  to  my  meeting 
with  me." 

Raising  his  hat,  Hilary  frowned.  For  once  his 
delicacy  was  at  fault.     He  said: 

**Ah,  yes!     Excuse  me!"  and  got  out. 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  looked  after  him,  and  then 
glanced  round  the  omnibus.  His  conduct  was  very 
like  the  conduct  of  a  man  who  had  got  in  to  keep  an 
assignation  with  a  lady,  and  found  that  lady  sitting 


Hilary  Gives  Chase  99 

next  his  aunt.  She  was  unable  to  see  a  soul  who 
seemed  to  foster  this  view,  and  sat  thinking  that  he 
was  **rather  attractive/'  Suddenly  her  dark  busy 
eyes  lighted  on  the  figure  of  the  little  model  strolling 
along  again. 

**0h!*' she  thought.  ''Ah!  Yes,  really!  How  very 
interesting!" 

Hilary,  to  avoid  meeting  the  girl  point-blank,  had 
turned  up  a  by-street,  and,  finding  a  convenient  cor- 
ner, waited.  He  was  puzzled.  If  this  man  were  per- 
secuting her  with  his  attentions,  why  had  he  not  gone 
across  when  she  was  standing  at  the  picture-shop? 

She  passed  across  the  opening  of  the  by-street,  still 
walking  in  the  slack  way  of  one  who  takes  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  streets.  She  passed  from  view;  Hilary 
strained  his  eyes  to  see  if  Hughs  were  following.  He 
waited  several  minutes.  The  man  did  not  appear. 
The  chase  was  over!  And  suddenly  it  flashed  across 
him  that  Hughs  had  merely  dogged  her  to  see  that  she 
had  no  assignation  with  anybody.  They  had  both 
been  playing  the  same  game!  He  flushed  up  in  that 
shady  little  street,  in  which  he  was  the  only  person  to 
be  seen.  Cecilia  was  right!  It  was  a  sordid  business. 
A  man  more  in  touch  with  facts  than  Hilary  would 
have  had  some  mental  pigeon-hole  into  which  to  put 
an  incident  like  this;  but,  being  by  profession  con- 
cerned mainly  with  ideas  and  thoughts,  he  did  not 
quite  know  where  he  was.  The  habit  of  his  mind 
precluded  him  from  thinking  very  definitely  on  any 
subject  except  his  literary  work — ^precluded  him 
especially  in  a  matter  of  this  sort,  so  inextricably  en- 
twined with  that  delicate,  dim  question,  the  impact 
of  class  on  class. 


loo  Fraternity 

Pondering  deeply,  he  ascended  the  leafy  lane  that 
leads  between  high  railings  from  Notting  Hill  to 
Kensington. 

It  was  so  far  from  traffic  that  every  tree  on  either 
side  was  loud  with  the  Spring  songs  of  birds ;  the  scent 
of  running  sap  came  forth  shyly  as  the  sun  sank  low. 
Strange  peace,  strange  feeling  of  old  Mother  Earth  up 
there  above  the  town ;  wild  tunes,  and  the  quiet  sight 
of  clouds.  Man  in  this  lane  might  rest  his  troubled 
thoughts,  and  for  a  while  trust  the  goodness  of  the 
Scheme  that  gave  him  birth,  the  beauty  of  each  day, 
that  laughs  or  broods  itself  into  night.  Some  bud- 
ding lilacs  exhaled  a  scent  of  lemons ;  a  sandy  cat  on 
the  coping  of  a  garden- wall  was  basking  in  the  setting 
sun. 

In  the  centre  of  the  lane  a  row  of  elm-trees  dis- 
played their  gnarled,  knotted  roots.  Human  beings 
were  seated  there,  whose  matted  hair  clung  round 
their  tired  faces.  Their  gaunt  limbs  were  clothed  in 
rags;  each  had  a  stick,  and  some  sort  of  dirty  bundle 
tied  to  it.  They  were  asleep.  On  a  bench  beyond, 
two  toothless  old  women  sat,  moving  their  eyes  from 
side  to  side,  and  a  crimson-faced  woman  was  snoring. 
Under  the  next  tree  a  Cockney  youth  and  his  girl  were 
sitting  side  by  side — pale  young  things,  with  loose 
mouths,  and  hollow  cheeks,  and  restless  eyes.  Their 
arms  were  enlaced ;  they  were  silent.  A  little  farther 
on,  two  young  men  in  working  clothes  were  looking 
straight  before  them,  with  desperately  tired  faces. 
They,  too,  were  silent. 

On  the  last  bench  of  all  Hilary  came  on  the  little 
model,  seated  slackly  by  herself. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  TROUSSEAU 

THIS,  the  first  time  these  two  had  met  each  other 
at  large,  was  clearly  not  a  comfortable  event 
for  either  of  them.  The  girl  blushed,  and  hastily  got 
off  her  seat.  Hilary,  who  raised  his  hat  and  frowned, 
sat  down  on  it. 

**Don*t  get  up,"  he  said;  "I  want  to  talk  to  you.'* 

The  little  model  obediently  resumed  her  seat.  A 
silence  followed.  She  had  on  the  old  brown  skirt  and 
knitted  jersey,  the  old  blue-green  tam-o*-shanter  cap, 
and  there  were  marks  of  weariness  beneath  her  eyes. 

At  last  Hilary  remarked:  **How  are  you  getting 
on?*' 

The  little  model  looked  at  her  feet. 

**  Pretty  well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Dallison. " 

"  I  came  to  see  you  yesterday. '  * 

She  slid  a  look  at  him  which  might  have  meant 
nothing  or  meant  much,  so  perfect  its  shy  stolidity. 

"  I  was  out,  **  3he  said,  "  sitting  to  Miss  Boyle. " 

"So  you  have  some  work?'* 

"It 's  finished  now.*' 

"Then  you  're  only  getting  the  two  shillings  a  day 
from  Mr.  Stone?" 

She  nodded. 

"H'm!" 

The  unexpected  fervour  of  this  grunt  seemed  to 
animate  the  little  model. 

.  loi 


I02     .     .  Fraternity 

"Three  and  sixpence  for  my  rent,  and  breakfast 
costs  threepence  nearly— only  bread  and  butter— 
that 's  five  and  two ;  and  washing  's  always  at  least 
tenpence — that  's  six;  and  little  things  last  week  was  a 
shilling — even  when  I  don't  take  buses— seven;  that 
leaves  five  shillings  for  my  dinners.  Mr.  Stone  always 
gives  me  tea.  It  *s  my  clothes  worries  me."  She 
tucked  her  feet  farther  beneath  the  seat,  and  Hilary 
refrained  from  looking  down.     "My  hat  is  awful,  and 

I  do  want  some **     She  looked  Hilary  in  the  face 

for  the  first  time.     "  I  do  wish  I  was  rich. '! 

"I  don't  wonder/' 

The  little  model  gritted  her  teeth,  and,  twisting  at 
her  dirty  gloves,  said:  "Mr.  Dallison  d*  you  know  the 
first  thing  I  'd  buy  if  I  was  rich?** 

"No." 

"I  'd  buy  everything  new  on  me  from  top  to  toe, 
and  I  would  n't  ever  wear  any  of  these  old  things 
again." 

Hilary  got  up:  "  Come  with  me  now,  and  buy  every- 
thing new  from  top  to  toe, " 

"Oh!" 

Hilary  had  already  perceived  that  he  had  made  an 
awkward,  even  dangerous,  proposal;  short,  however, 
of  giving  her  money,  the  idea  of  which  offended  his 
sense  of  delicacy,  there  was  no  way  out  of  it.  He  said 
brusquely:  "  Come  along ! " 

The  little  model  rose  obediently.  Hilary  noticed 
that  her  boots  were  split,  and  this — as  though  he  had 
seen  someone  strike  a  child — so  moved  his  indignation 
that  he  felt  no  more  qualms,  but  rather  a  sort  of 
pleasant  glow,  such  as  will  come  to  the  most  studious 
man  when  he  levels  a  blow  at  the  conventions. 


The  Trousseau  103 

He  looked  down  at  his  companion — her  eyes  were 
lowered ;  he  could  not  tell  at  all  what  she  was  thinking 
of. 

"This  is  what  I  was  going  to  speak  to  you  about, " 
he  said:  "I  don't  like  that  house  you  're  in;  I  think 
you  ought  to  be  somewhere  else.     What  do  you  say ? '* 

"Yes,  Mr.  Dallison." 

"You  'd  better  make  a  change,  I  think;  you  could 
find  another  room,  could  n't  you?*' 

The  little  model  answered  as  before:  "Yes,  Mr. 
Dallison. '* 

"I  *m  afraid  that  Hughs  is — a  dangerous  sort  of 
fellow.'' 

"He  's  a  funny  man." 

"  Does  he  annoy  you  ? " 

Her  expression  baffled  Hilary;  there  seemed  a  sort 
of  slow  enjoyment  in  it.     She  looked  up  knowingly. 

"I  don't  mind  him — he  won't  hurt  me.  Mr.  Dalli- 
son, do  you  think  blue  or  green?" 

Hilary  answered  shortly:  "  Bluey-green. " 

She  clasped  her  hands,  changed  her  feet  with  a  hop, 
and  went  on  walking  as  before. 

"  Listen  to  me, "  said  Hilary;  " has  Mrs.  Hughs  been 
talking  to  you  about  her  husband?'! 

The  little  model  smiled  again. 

"She  goes  on,"  she  said. 

Hilary  bit  his  lips. 

"Mr.  Dallison,  please— about  my  hat?" 

"  What  about  your  hat  ? " 

"Would  you  like  me  to  get  a  large  one  or  a  small 
one?" 

"  For  God's  sake, "  answered  Hilary,  "  a  small  one- 
no  feathers." 


I04  Fraternity 

"Can  you  attend  to  me  a  minute?  Have  either 
Hughs  or  Mrs.  Hughs  spoken  to  you  about — coming 
to  my  house,  about — me?" 

The  little  model's  face  remained  impassive,  but  by 
the  movement  of  her  fingers  Hilary  saw  that  she  was 
attending  now. 

**I  don't  care  what  they  say.'' 

Hilary  looked  away ;  an  angry  flush  slowly  mounted 
in  his  face. 

With  surprising  suddenness  the  little  model  said: 

**0f  course,  if  I  was  a  lady,  I  might  mind!" 

** Don't  talk  like  that!"  said  Hilary;  ** every  woman 
is  a  lady." 

The  stolidity  of  the  girl's  face,  more  mocking  far 
than  any  smile,  warned  him  of  the  cheapness  of  this 
verbiage. 

'*If  I  was  a  lady,"  she  repeated  simply,  **I 
shouldn't  be  livin'  there,  should  I?" 

**No,"  said  Hilary;  **and  you  had  better  not  go 
on  living  there,  anyway. " 

The  little  model  making  no  answer,  Hilary  did  not 
quite  know  what  to  say.  It  was  becoming  apparent 
to  him  that  she  viewed  the  situation  with  a  very 
different  outlook  from  himself,  and  that  he  did  not 
understand  that  outlook. 

He  felt  thoroughly  at  sea,  conscious  that  this  girl's 
life  contained  a  thousand  things  he  did  not  know,  a 
thousand  points  of  view  he  did  not  share. 

Their  two  figures  attracted  some  attention  in  the 
crowded  street,  for  Hilary — tall  and  slight,  with  his 
thin,  bearded  face  and  soft  felt  hat — was  what  is 
known  as  "a  distinguished-looking  man";  and  the 


The  Trousseau  105 

little  model,  though  not  ** distinguished-looking"  in 
her  old  brown  skirt  and  tam-o*-shanter  cap,  had  the 
sort  of  face  which  made  men  and  even  women  turn  to 
look  at  her.  To  men  she  was  a  little  bit  of  strangely 
interesting,  not  too  usual,  flesh  and  blood;  to  women, 
she  was  that  which  made  men  turn  to  look  at  her. 
Yet  now  and  again  there  would  rise  in  some  passer-by 
a  feeling  more  impersonal,  as  though  the  God  of  Pity 
had  shaken  wings  overhead,  and  dropped  a  tiny 
feather. 

So  walking,  and  exciting  vague  interest,  they 
reached  the  first  of  the  hundred  doors  of  Messrs.  Rose 
and  Thorn. 

Hilary  had  determined  on  this  end  door,  for,  as  the 
adventure  grew  warmer,  he  was  more  alive  to  its 
dangers.  To  take  this  child  into  the  very  shop  fre- 
quented by  his  wife  and  friends  seemed  a  little  mad ; 
but  that  same  reason  which  caused  them  to  frequent 
it — ^the  fact  that  there  was  no  other  shop  of  the  sort 
half  so  handy — ^was  the  reason  which  caused  Hilary  to 
go  there  now.  He  had  acted  on  impulse ;  he  knew  that 
if  he  let  his  impulse  cool  he  would  not  act  at  all.  The 
bold  course  was  the  wise  one;  this  was  why  he  chose 
the  end  door  round  the  corner.  Standing  aside  for  her 
to  go  in  first,  he  noticed  the  girl's  brightened  eyes  and 
cheeks;  she  had  never  looked  so  pretty.  He  glanced 
hastily  round;  the  department  was  barren  for  their 
purposes,  filled  entirely  with  pyjamas.  He  felt  a 
touch  on  his  arm.  The  little  model,  rather  pink, 
was  looking  up  at  him. 

'*Mr.  Dallison,  am  I  to  get  more  than  one  set  of — 
underthings?'* 

** Three— three,"  muttered  Hilary ;  and  suddenly  he 


io6  Fraternity 

saw  that  they  were  on  the  threshold  of  that  sanctuary 
**Buy  them, "  he  said,  *'and  bring  me  the  bill. " 

He  waited  close  beside  a  man  with  a  pink  face,  a 
moustache,  and  an  almost  perfect  figure,  who  was 
standing  very  still,  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  blue- 
and-white  stripes.  He  seemed  the  apotheosis  of  what 
a  man  should  be,  his  face  composed  in  a  deathless 
simper:  **Long,  long  have  been  the  struggles  of  man, 
but  civilisation  has  produced  me  at  last.  Further 
than  this  it  cannot  go.  Nothing  shall  make  me  con- 
tinue my  line.  In  me  the  end  is  reached.  See  my 
back:  *The  Amateur.  This  perfect  style,  85.  iid. 
Great  reduction.  '" 

He  would  not  talk  to  Hilary,  and  the  latter  was 
compelled  to  watch  the  shopmen.  It  was  but  half  an 
hour  to  closing  time;  the  youths  were  moving  lan- 
guidly, bickering  a  little,  in  the  absence  of  their  cus- 
tomers— ^like  flies  on  a  pane,  that  cannot  get  out  into 
the  sun.  Two  of  them  came  and  asked  him  what 
they  might  serve  him  with ;  they  were  so  refined  and 
pleasant  that  Hilary  was  on  the  point  of  buying  what 
he  did  not  want.  The  reappearance  of  the  little 
model  saved  him. 

"It's  thirty  shillings;  five  and  eleven  was  the 
cheapest,  and  stockings,  and  I  bought  some  sta '* 

Hilary  produced  the  money  hastily. 

"This  is  a  very  dear  shop,  '*  she  said. 

When  she  had  paid  the  bill,  and  Hilary  had  taken 
from  her  a  large  brown-paper  parcel,  they  journeyed  on 
together.  He  had  armoured  his  face  now  in  a  slightly 
startled  quizzicality,  as  though,  himself  detached,  he 
were  watching  the  adventure  from  a  distance. 
.   On  the  central  velvet  seat  of  the  boot  and  shoe  de- 


The  Trousseau  107 

partment,  a  lady,  with  an  egret  in  her  hat,  was  stretch- 
ing out  a  slim  silk-stockinged  foot,  waiting  for  a  boot. 
She  looked  with  negligent  amusement  at  this  common 
little  girl  and  her  singular  companion.  This  look 
of  hers  seemed  to  affect  the  women  serving,  for  none 
came  near  the  little  model.  Hilary  saw  them  eyeing 
her  boots,  and,  suddenly  forgetting  his  r61e  of  looker- 
on,  he  became  very  angry.  Taking  out  his  watch, 
he  went  up  to  the  eldest  woman. 

**If  somebody,"  he  said,  **does  not  attend  this 
young  lady  within  a  minute,  I  shall  make  a  personal 
complaint  to  Mr.  Thorn.  '* 

The  hand  of  the  watch,  however,  had  not  completed 
its  round  before  a  woman  was  at  the  little  model's 
side.  Hilary  saw  her  taking  off  her  boot,  and  by  a 
sudden  impulse  he  placed  himself  between  her  and 
the  lady.  In  doing  this,  he  so  far  forgot  his  delicacy 
as  to  fix  his  eyes  on  the  little  model's  foot.  The 
sense  of  physical  discomfort  which  first  attacked  him 
became  a  sort  of  aching  in  his  heart.  That  brown, 
dingy  stocking  was  darned  till  no  stocking,  only  darn- 
ing, and  one  toe  and  two  little  white  bits  of  foot  were 
seen,  where  the  threads  refused  to  hold  together  any 
longer. 

The  little  model  wagged  the  toe  uneasily — she  had 
hoped,  no  doubt,  that  it  would  not  protrude — then 
concealed  it  with  her  skirt.  Hilary  moved  hastily 
away ;  when  he  looked  again,  it  was  not  at  her,  but  at 
the  lady. 

Her  face  had  changed ;  it  was  no  longer  amused  and 
negligent,  but  stamped  with  an  expression  of  offence. 
"Intolerable,"  it  seemed  to  say,  '*to  bring  a  girl  like 
that  into  a  shop  like  this!     I  shall  never  come  here 


io8  Fraternity 

again!**  The  expression  was  but  the  outward  sign  of 
that  inner  physical  discomfort  Hilary  himself  had 
felt  when  he  first  saw  the  little  model's  stocking. 
This  naturally  did  not  serve  to  lessen  his  anger,  espe- 
cially as  he  saw  her  animus  mechanically  reproduced 
on  the  faces  of  the  serving  women. 

He  went  back  to  the  little  model,  and  sat  down  by 
her  side. 

**Does  it  fit?    You  'd  better  walk  in  it  and  see.'! 

The  little  model  walked. 

**It  squeezes  me/*  she  said. 

"Try  another,  then,**  said  Hilary. 

The  lady  rose,  stood  for  a  second  with  her  eyebrows 
raised  and  her  nostrils  slightly  distended,  then  went 
away,  and  left  a  peculiarly  pleasant  scent  of  violets 
behind. 

The  second  pair  of  boots  not  "squeezing**  her,  the 
little  model  was  soon  ready  to  go  down.  She  had  all 
her  trousseau  now,  except  the  dress — selected  and, 
indeed,  paid  for,  but  which,  as  she  told  Hilary,  she  was 

coming  back  to  try  on  to-morrow,  when — when 

She  had  obviously  meant  to  say  when  she  was  all  new 
underneath.  She  was  laden  with  one  large  and  two 
small  parcels,  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  holy  look. 

Outside  the  shop  she  gazed  up  in  his  face. 

"Well,  you  are  happy  now?"  asked  Hilary. 

Between  the  short  black  lashes  were  seen  two  very 
bright,  wet  shining  eyes;  her  parted  lips  began  to 
quiver. 

"Good-night,  then,**  he  said  abruptly,  and  walked 
away. 

But  looking  round,  he  saw  her  still  standing  there, 
half  buried  in  parcels,  gazing  after  him.     Raising  his 


The  Trousseau  109 

hat,  he  turned  into  the  High  Street  towards  home.  .  .  . 

The  old  man,  known  to  that  low-class  of  fellows 
with  whom  he  was  now  condemned  to  associate  as 
**Westmmister, "  was  taking  a  whiff  or  two  out  of  his 
old  clay  pipe,  and  trying  to  forget  his  feet.  He  saw 
Hilary  coming,  and  carefully  extended  a  copy  of  the 
last  edition. 

"Good-evenin',  sir!  Quite  seasonable  to-day  fc^ 
the  time  of  year!     Ho,  yes!     Westministe.'i  " 

His  eyes  followed  Hilary's  retreat.     He  thouglit: 

"Oh,  dear!  He  's  a-given  me  an  'arf-a-crown.  He 
does  look  well — I  like  to  see  'im  look  as  well  as  that — 
quite  young!     Oh,  dear!" 

The  sun — that  smoky,  flaring  ball,  which  in  its 
time  had  seen  so  many  last  editions  of  the  Westmiyisier 
Gazette — was  dropping  down  to  pass  the  night  in 
Shepherd's  Bush.  It  made  the  old  butler's  eyelids 
blink  when  he  turned  to  see  if  the  coin  really  was 
a  half-crown,  or  too  good  to  be  true. 

And  all  the  spires  and  house-roofs,  and  the  spaces 
up  above  and  underneath  them,  glittered  and  swam, 
and  little  men  and  horses,  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
powdered  with  golden  dust. 


CHAPTER  XI 

PEAR   BLOSSOM 

WEIGHED  down  by  her  three  parcels,  the  little 
model  pursued  her  way  to  Hound  Street. 
At  the  door  of  No.  i  the  son  of  the  lame  woman,  a 
tall  weedy  youth  with  a  white  face,  was  resting  his 
legs  alternately,  and  smoking  a  cigarette.  Closing 
one  eye,  he  addressed  her  thus: 

"  'Alio,  miss!     Kerry  your  parcels  for  you?" 
The  little  model  gave  him  a  look.     "Mind  your 
own  business!'*  it  said;  but  there  was  that  in  the 
flicker  of  her  eyelashes  which  more  than  nullified 
the  snub. 

Entering  her  room,  she  deposited  the  parcels  on 
her  bed,  and  untied  the  strings  with  quick,  pink 
fingers.  When  she  had  freed  the  garments  from  wrap- 
pings and  spread  them  out,  she  knelt  down,  and 
began  to  touch  them,  putting  her  nose  down  once  or 
twice  to  sniff  the  linen  and  feel  its  texture.  There 
were  little  frills  attached  here  and  there,  and  to  these 
she  paid  particular  attention,  ruffling  their  edges 
with  the  palms  of  her  hands,  while  the  holy  look  came 
back  to  her  face.  Rising  at  length,  she  locked  the 
door,  drew  down  the  blind,  undressed  from  head  to 
foot,  and  put  on  the  new  garments.  Letting  her  hair 
down,  she  turned  herself  luxuriously  round  and  round 
before  the  too-small  looking  glass.  There  was  utter 
satisfaction,  in  each  gesture  of  that  whole  operation, 

.  no. 


Pear  Blossom  m 

as  if  her  spirit,  long-starved,  were  having  a  good  meal. 
In  this  rapt  contemplation  of  herself,  all  childish 
vanity  and  expectancy,  and  all  that  wonderful 
quality  found  in  simple  unspiritual  natures  of  delight- 
ing in  the  present  moment,  were  perfectly  displayed. 
So,  motionless,  with  her  hair  loose  on  her  neck,  she 
was  like  one  of  those  half-hours  of  Spring  that  have 
lost  their  restlessness  and  are  content  just  to  be. 

Presently,  however,  as  though  suddenly  remember- 
ing that  her  happiness  was  not  utterly  complete,  she 
went  to  a  drawer,  took  out  a  packet  of  pear-drops, 
and  put  one  in  her  mouth. 

The  sun,  near  to  setting,  had  found  its  way  through 
a  hole  in  the  blind,  and  touched  her  neck.  She 
turned  as  though  she  had  received  a  kiss,  and,  raising 
a  corner  of  the  blind,  peered  out.  The  pear-tree, 
which,  to  the  annoyance  of  its  proprietor,  was  placed 
so  close  to  the  back  court  of  this  low-class  house  as 
almost  to  seem  to  belong  to  it,  was  bathed  in  slanting 
sunlight.  No  tree  in  all  the  world  could  have  looked 
more  fair  than  it  did  just  then  in  its  garb  of  gilded 
bloom.  With  her  hand  up  to  her  bare  neck,  and  her 
cheeks  indrawn  from  sucking  the  sweet,  the  little 
model  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  tree.  Her  expression  did 
not  change;  she  showed  no  signs  of  admiration.  Her 
gaze  passed  on  to  the  back  windows  of  the  house  that 
really  owned  the  pear-tree,  spying  out  whether  anyone 
could  see  her — hoping,  perhaps,  someone  would  see 
her  while  she  was  feeling  so  nice  and  new.  Then, 
dropping  the  blind,  she  went  back  to  the  glass  and 
began  to  pin  her  hair  up.  When  this  was  done  she 
stood  for  a  long  minute  looking  at  her  old  brown  skirt 
and  blouse,  hesitating  to  defile  her  new-found  purity. 


112  Fraternity 

At  last  she  put  them  on  and  drew  up  the  blind.  The 
sunlight  had  passed  off  the  pear-tree;  its  bloom  was 
now  white,  and  almost  as  still  as  snow.  The  little 
model  put  another  sweet  into  her  mouth,  and  pro- 
ducing from  her  pocket  an  ancient  leather  purse, 
counted  out  her  money.  Evidently  discovering  that 
it  was  no  more  than  she  expected,  she  sighed,  and 
rummaged  out  of  a  top  drawer  an  old  illustrated 
magazine. 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and,  turning  the  leaves 
rapidly  till  she  reached  a  certain  page,  rested  the 
paper  in  her  lap.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  photo- 
graph in  the  left-hand  corner — one  of  those  effigies  of 
writers  that  appear  occasionally  in  the  public  press. 
Under  it  were  printed  the  words:  "Mr.  Hilary  Dal- 
lison."     And  suddenly  she  heaved  another  sigh. 

The  room  grew  darker;  the  wind,  getting  up  as  the 
sun  went  down,  blew  a  few  dropped  petals  of  the 
pear-tree  against  the  window-pane. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SHIPS  IN   SAIL 

IN  due  accord  with  the  old  butler's  comment  on  his 
looks,  Hilary  had  felt  so  young  that,  instead  of 
going  home,  he  mounted  an  omnibus,  and  went  down 
to  his  club — the  "Pen  and  Ink,"  so-called  because 
the  man  who  founded  it  could  not  think  at  the  mo- 
ment of  any  other  words.  This  literary  person  had 
left  the  club  soon  after  its  initiation,  having  con- 
ceived for  it  a  sudden  dislike.  It  had  indeed  a  certain 
reputation  for  bad  cooking,  and  all  its  members  com- 
plained bitterly  at  times  that  you  never  could  go  in 
Tvithout  meeting  someone  you  knew.  It  stood  in 
I^over  Street.  Unlike  other  clubs,  it  was  mainly 
\ised  to  talk  in,  and  had  special  arrangements  for  the 
safety  of  umbrellas  and  such  books  as  had  not  yet 
vanished  from  the  library;  not,  of  course,  owing  to 
any  peculative  tendency  among  its  members,  but 
because,  after  interchanging  their  ideas,  those  mem- 
bers would  depart,  in  a  long  row,  each  grasping  some 
material  object  in  his  hand.  Its  maroon-coloured 
curtains,  too,  were  never  drawn,  because,  in  the  heat 
of  their  discussions  the  members  were  always  drawing 
them.  On  the  whole,  those  members  did  not  like 
each  other  much;  wondering  a  little,  one  by  one,  why 
the  others  wrote  and  when  the  printed  reasons  were 
detailed  to  them,  reading  them  with  irritation.  If 
really  compelled  to  hazard  an  opinion  about  each 


1 14  Fraternity 

other's  merits,  they  used  to  say  that,  no  doubt  "  So- 
and-so"  was  ''very  good,**  but  they  had  never  read 
him!  For  it  had  early  been  established  as  the  prin- 
ciple underlying  membership,  not  to  read  the  writings 
of  another  man  unless  you  could  be  certain  he  was 
dead,  lest  you  might  have  to  tell  him  to  his  face  that 
you  disliked  his  work.  For  they  were  very  jealous 
of  the  purity  of  their  literary  consciences.  Excep- 
tion was  made,  however,  in  the  case  of  those  who 
lived  by  written  criticism,  the  opinions  of  such  per- 
sons being  read  by  all,  with  a  varying  smile,  and  a 
certain  cerebral  excitement.  Now  and  then,  how- 
ever, some  member,  violating  every  sense  of-^decency, 
would  take  a  violent  liking  for  another  member's 
books.  This  he  would  express  in  words,  to  the  dis- 
comfort of  his  fellows,  who,  with  a  sudden  chilly  feel- 
ing in  the  stomach,  would  wonder  why  it  was  not 
their  books  that  he  was  praising. 

Almost  every  year,  and  generally  in  March,  certain 
aspirations  would  pass  into  the  club;  members  w^ould 
ask  each  other  why  there  was  no  Academy  of  British 
Letters;  why  there  was  no  concerted  movement  to 
limit  the  production  of  other  authors*  books;  why 
there  was  no  prize  given  for  the  best  work  of  the  year. 
For  a  little  time  it  almost  seemed  as  if  their  individu- 
alism were  in  danger;  but,  the  windows  having  been 
opened  wider  than  usual  some  morning,  the  aspira- 
tions would  pass  out,  and  all  would  feel  secretly  as  a 
man  feels  when  he  has  swallowed  the  mosquito  that 
has  been  worrying  him  all  night — relieved,  but  just  a 
little  bit  embarrassed.  Socially  sympathetic  in  their 
*-' dealings  with  each  other — they  were  mostly  quite 
nice  fellows — each  kept  a  little   fame-machine,   on 


Ships  in  Sail  115 

which  he  might  be  seen  sitting  every  morning  about 
the  time  the  papers  and  his  correspondence  came, 
wondering  if  his  fame  were  going  up. 

Hilary  stayed  in  the  club  till  half-past  nine;  then, 
avoiding  a  discussion  which  was  just  setting  in,  he 
took  his  own  umbrella,  and  bent  his  steps  towards 
home. 

It  was  the  moment  of  suspense  in  Piccadilly;  the 
tide  had  flowed  up  to  the  theatres,  and  had  not  yet 
begun  to  ebb.  The  tranquil  trees,  still  feathery, 
draped  their  branches  along  the  farther  bank  of  that 
broad  river,  resting  from  their  watch  over  the  tragi- 
comedies played  on  its  surface  by  men,  their  small 
companions.  The  gentle  sighs  that  distilled  from 
their  plume-like  boughs  seemed  utterances  of  the 
softest  wisdom.  Not  far  beyond  their  trunks  it  was 
all  dark  velvet,  into  which  separate  shapes,  adven- 
turing, were  lost,  as  wild  birds  vanishing  in  space,  or 
the  souls  of  men  received  into  their  Mother's  heart. 

Hilary  walked,  hearing  no  sighs  of  wisdom,  noting 
no  smooth  darkness,  wrapped  in  thought.  The  mere 
fact  of  having  given  pleasure  was  enough  to  produce 
a  warm  sensation  in  a  man  so  naturally  kind.  But 
as  with  all  self-conscious,  self -distrustful,  natures, 
that  sensation  had  not  lasted.  He  was  left  with  a 
feeling  of  emptiness  and  disillusionment,  as  of  having 
given  himself  a  good  mark  without  reason. 

While  walking,  he  was  a  target  for  the  eyes  of 
many  women,  who  passed  him  rapidly,  like  ships  in 
sail.  The  peculiar  fastidious  shyness  of  his  face 
attracted  those  accustomed  to  another  kind  of  face. 
And  though  he  did  not  precisely  look  at  them,  they  in 
turn  inspired  in  him  the  compassionate,  morbid  curi- 


ii6  Fraternity 

osity  which  persons  who  live  desperate  lives  neces- 
sarily inspire  in  the  leisured,  speculative  mind.  One 
of  them  deliberately  approached  him  from  a  side- 
street.  Though  taller  and  fuller,  with  heightened 
colour,  frizzy  hair,  and  a  hat  with  feathers,  she  was 
the  image  of  the  little  model — ^the  same  shape  of 
face,  broad  cheek-bones,  mouth  a  little  open;  the 
same  flower-coloured  eyes  and  short  black  lashes, 
all  coarsened  and  accentuated  as  Art  coarsens  and 
accentuates  the  lines  of  life.  Looking  boldly  into 
Hilary's  startled  face,  she  laughed.  Hilary  winced 
and  walked  on  quickly. 

He  reached  home  at  half-past  ten.  The  lamp  was 
burning  in  Mr.  Stone's  room,  and  his  window  was,  as 
usual,  open;  that  which  was  not  usual,  however,  was 
a  light  in  Hilary's  own  bedroom.  He  went  gently  up. 
Through  the  door — ajar — he  saw,  to  his  surprise,  the 
figure  of  his  wife.  She  was  reclining  in  a  chair,  her 
elbows  on  its  arms,  the  tips  of  her  fingers  pressed 
together.  Her  face,  with  its  dark  hair,  vivid  colour- 
ing, and  sharp  lines,  was  touched  with  shadows;  her 
head  turned  as  though  towards  somebody  beside  her; 
her  neck  gleamed  white.  So — ^motionless,  dimly  seen 
— she  was  like  a  woman  sitting  alongside  her  own  life, 
scrutinising,  criticising,  watching  it  live,  taking  no 
part  in  it.  Hilary  wondered  whether  to  go  in  or  slip 
away  from  his  strange  visitor. 

"  Ah!  it  's  you,*'  she  said. 

Hilary  approached  her.  For  all  her  mockery  at  her 
own  charms,  this  wife  of  his  was  strangely  graceful. 
After  nineteen  years  in  which  to  learn  every  line  of 
her  face  and  body,  every  secret  of  her  nature,  she  still 
eluded  him;  that  elusiveness,  which  had  begun  by 


Ships  in  Sail  117 

being  such  a  charm,  had  got  on  his  nerves,  and  ex- 
tinguished the  flame  it  had  once  lighted.  He  had  so 
often  tried  to  see,  and  never  seen,  the  essence  of  her 
soul.  Why  was  she  made  like  this  ?  Why  was  she  for 
ever  mocking  herself,  himself,  and  every  other  thing? 
Why  was  she  so  hard  to  her  own  life,  so  bitter  a  foe  to 
her  own  happiness?  Leonardo  da  Vinci  might  have 
painted  her,  less  sensual  and  cruel  than  his  women, 
more  restless  and  disharmonic,  but  physically,  spiritu- 
ally enticing,  and,  by  her  refusals  to  surrender  either 
to  her  spirit  or  her  senses,  baffling  her  own  enticements. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  came,*'  she  said. 

Hilary  found  no  better  answer  than:  "I  am  sorry 
I  was  out  to  dinner.'* 

"Has  the  wind  gone  round?     My  room  is  cold." 

"Yes,    north-east.     Stay   here." 

Her  hand  touched  his ;  that  warm  and  restless  clasp 
was  agitating. 

" It  's  good  of  you  to  ask  me;  but  we  *d  better  not 
begin  what  we  can't  keep  up." 

"Stay  here,"  said  Hilary  again,  kneeling  down 
beside  her  chair. 

And  suddenly  he  began  to  kiss  her  face  and  neck. 
He  felt  her  answering  kisses ;  for  a  moment  they  were 
clasped  together  in  a  fierce  embrace.  Then,  as  though 
by  mutual  consent,  their  arms  relaxed;  their  eyes 
grew  furtive,  like  the  eyes  of  children  who  have  egged 
each  other  on  to  steal ;  and  on  their  lips  appeared  the 
faintest  of  faint  smiles.  It  was  as  though  those  lips 
were  saying:  "Yes,  but  we  are  not  quite  animals!" 

Hilary  got  up  and  sat  down  on  his  bed.  Bianca 
stayed  in  the  chair,  looking  straight  before  her,  utterly 
inert,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  white  throat  gleam- 


ii8  Fraternity 

ing,  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes  that  flickering  smile. 
Not  a  word  more,  nor  a  look,  passed  between  them. 

Then  rising,  without  noise,  she  passed  behind  him 
and  went  out. 

Hilary  had  a  feeling  in  his  mouth  as  though  he  had 
been  chewing  ashes.  And  a  phrase — as  phrases 
sometimes  fill  the  spirit  of  a  man  without  rhyme  or 
reason — kept  forming  on  his  lips:  "The  house  of 
harmony! '* 

Presently  he  went  to  her  door,  and  stood  there 
listening.  He  could  hear  no  sound  whatever.  If  she 
had  been  crying — ^if  she  had  been  laughing — it  would 
have  been  better  than  this  silence.  He  put  his  hands 
up  to  his  ears  and  ran  down-stairs. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SOUND   IN   THE    NIGHT 

HE  passed  his  study  door,  and  halted  at  Mr. 
Stone's;  the  thought  of  the  old  man,  so  steady 
and  absorbed  in  the  face  of  all  external  things, 
refreshed  him. 

Still  in  his  brown  woollen  gown,  Mr.  Stone  was 
sitting  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  something  in  the  corner, 
whence  a  little  perfumed  steam  was  rising. 

**Shut  the  door/*  he  said;  **I  am  making  cocoa;  will 
you  have  a  cup?'* 

''Am.  I  disturbing  you?"  asked  Hilary. 
Mr.  Stone  looked  at  him  steadily  before  answering: 
**If  I  work  after  cocoa,  I  find  it  clogs  the  liver.** 
''Then,  if  you  *11  let  me,  sir,  I  *11  stay  a  little.** 
"It  is  boiling,'*  said  Mr.  Stone.     He  took  the  sauce- 
pan off  the  flame,  and,  distending  his  frail  cheeks, 
blew.     Then,  while  the  steam  mingled  with  his  frosty 
beard,  he  brought  two  cups  from  a  cupboard,  filled 
one  of  them,  and  looked  at  Hilary. 

"I  should  like  you,**  he  said,  "to  hear  three  or  four 
pages  I  have  just  completed ;  you  may  perhaps  be  able 
to  suggest  a  word  or  two.** 

He  placed  the  saucepan  back  on  the  stove,  and 
grasped  the  cup  he  had  filled. 

"I  will  drink  my  cocoa,  and  read  them  to  you." 
Going  to  the  desk,  he  stood,  blowing  at  the  cup. 
Hilary  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat  against  the 

"9 


I20  Fraternity 

night  wind  which  was  visiting  the  room,  and  glanced 
at  the  empty  cup,  for  he  was  rather  hungry.  He 
heard  a  curious  sound:  Mr.  Stone  was  blowing  his 
own  tongue.  In  his  haste  to  read,  he  had  drunk  too 
«oon  and  deeply  of  the  cocoa. 

**I  have  burnt  my  mouth,"  he  said. 

Hilary  moved  hastily  towards  him:  "Badly?  Try 
cold  milk,  sir.** 

Mr.  Stone  lifted  the  cup. 

**There  is  none,**  he  said,  and  drank  again. 

**  What  would  I  not  give,**  thought  Hilary,  *'to  have 
his  singleness  of  heart!** 

There  was  the  sharp  sound  of  a  cup  s6t  down. 
Then,  out  of  a  rustling  of  papers,  a  sort  of  droning 
rose: 

*'*The  Proletariat — with  a  cynicism  natural  to 
those  who  really  are  in  want,  and  even  amongst  their 
leaders  only  veiled  when  these  attained  a  certain  posi- 
tion in  the  public  eye — desired  indeed  the  wealth  and 
leisure  of  their  richer  neighbours,  but  in  their  long 
night  of  struggle  with  existence  they  had  only  found 
the  energy  to  formulate  their  pressing  needs  from  day 
to  day.  They  were  a  heaving,  surging  sea  of  crea- 
tures, slowly,  without  consciousness  or  real  guidance, 
rising  in  long  tidal  movements  to  set  the  limits  of  the 
shore  a  little  farther  back,  and  cast  afresh  the  form  of 

social  life;  and  on  its  pea-green  bosom *"     Mr. 

Stone  paused.  **She  has  copied  it  wrong,*'  he  said; 
**the  word  is  *sea  green.*  'And  on  its  sea-green 
bosom  sailed  a  fleet  of  silver  cockle-shells,  wafted  by 
the  breath  of  those  not  in  themselves  driven  by  the 
wind  of  need.  The  voyage  of  these  silver  cockle- 
shells, all  heading  across  each  other's  bows,  was,  in 


Sound  in  the  Night  lai 

fact,  the  advanced  movement  of  that  time.  In  the 
stern  of  each  of  these  little  craft,  blowing  at  the  sails, 
was  seated  a  by-product  of  the  accepted  system. 
These  by-products  we  should  now  examine.*  ** 

Mr.  Stone  paused,  and  looked  into  his  cup.     There 
were  some  grounds  in  it.     He  drank  them,  and  went 


on: 

it  I 


The  fratricidal  principle  of  the  survival  of  the 
fittest,  which  in  those  days  was  England's  moral 
teaching,  had  made  the  country  one  huge  butcher's 
shop.  Amongst  the  carcasses  of  countless  victims 
there  had  fattened  and  grown  purple  many  butchers, 
physically  strengthened  by  the  smell  of  blood  and  saw- 
dust. These  had  begotten  many  children.  Following 
out  the  laws  of  Nature  providing  against  surfeit,  a 
proportion  of  these  children  were  born  with  a  feeling 
of  distaste  for  blood  and  sawdust;  many  of  them, 
compelled  for  the  purpose  of  making  money  to  follow 
in  their  fathers'  practices,  did  so  unwillingly;  some, 
thanks  to  their  fathers'  butchery,  were  in  a  position 
to  abstain  from  practising;  but  whether  in  practice 
or  at  leisure,  distaste  for  the  scent  of  blood  and  saw- 
dust was  the  common  feature  that  distinguished  them. 
Qualities  hitherto  but  little  known,  and  generally 
despised — ^not,  as  we  shall  see,  without  some  reason — 
were  developed  in  them.  Self -consciousness,  aestheti- 
cism,  a  dislike  for  waste,  a  hatred  of  injustice;  these — 
or  some  one  of  these,  when  coupled  with  that  desire 
natural  to  men  throughout  all  ages  to  accomplish 
something — constituted  the  motive  forces  which 
enabled  them  to  work  their  bellows.  In  practical 
affairs  those  who  were  under  the  necessity  of  labouring 
were  driven,  under  the  then  machinery  of  social  life, 


122  Fraternity 

to  the  humaner  and  less  exacting  kinds  of  butchery, 
such  as  the  Arts,  Education,  the  practice  of  Religions 
and  Medicine,  and  the  paid  representation  of  their 
fellow-creatures.  Those  not  so  driven  occupied 
themselves  in  observing  and  complaining  of  the 
existing  state  of  things.  Each  year  saw  more  of  their 
silver  cockle-shells  putting  out  from  port,  and  the 
cheeks  of  those  who  blew  the  sails  more  violently 
distended.  Looking  back  on  that  pretty  voyage, 
we  see  the  reason  why  those  ships  were  doomed  never 
to  move,  but,  seated  on  the  sea-green  bosom  of  that 
sea,  to  heave  up  and  down,  heading  across  each  other's 
bows  in  the  selfsame  placS  for  ever.  That  reason,  in 
few  words,  was  this:  The  man  who  blew  should  have 
been  in  the  sea,  not  on  the  ship.'" 

The  droning  ceased.  Hilary  saw  that  Mr.  Stone 
was  staring  fixedly  at  his  sheet  of  paper,  as  though  the 
merits  of  this  last  sentence  were  surprising  him.  The 
droning  instantly  began  again:  **'In  social  effort,  as 
in  the  physical  processes  of  Nature,  there  had  ever 
been  a  single  fertilising  agent — the  mysterious  and 
wonderful  attraction  known  as  Love.  To  this — that 
merging  of  one  being  in  another — had  been  due  all 
the  progressive  variance  of  form,  known  by  man  under 
the  name  of  Life.  It  was  this  merger,  this  mysterious, 
unconscious  Love,  which  was  lacking  to  the  windy 
efforts  of  those  who  tried  to  sail  that  fleet.  They  were 
full  of  reason,  conscience,  horror,  full  of  impatience, 
contempt,  revolt ;  but  they  did  not  love  the  masses  of 
their  fellow-men.  They  could  not  fling  themselves 
into  the  sea.  Their  hearts  were  glowing;  but  the 
wind  that  made  them  glow  was  not  the  salt  and  uni- 
versal zephyr:  it  was  the  desert  wind  of  scorn.     As 


Sound  in  the  Night  123 

with  the  flowering  of  the  aloe-tree— so  long  awaited, 
^^. strange  and  swift  when  once  it  comes — man  had 
'yetlfto  wait  for  his  delirious  impulse  to  Universal 
Brotherhood,  and  the  forgetfulness  of  Self.'*' 

Mr.  Stone  had  finished,  and  stood  gazing  at  his 
visitor  with  eyes  that  clearly  saw  beyond  him. 
Hilary  could  not  meet  those  eyes;  he  kept  his  own 
fixed  on  the  empty  cocoa  cup.  It  was  not,  in  fact, 
usual  for  those  who  heard  Mr.  Stone  read  his  manu- 
script to  look  him  in  the  face.  He  stood  thus  ab- 
sorbed so  long  that  Hilary  rose  at  last,  and  glanced 
into  the  saucepan.  There  was  no  cocoa  in  it.  Mr. 
Stone  had  only  made  enough  for  one.  He  had  meant 
it  for  his  visitor,  but  self-forgetfulness  had  supervened. 

**You  know  what  happens  to  the  aloe,  sir,  when  it 
has  flowered?"  asked  Hilary,  with  malice. 

Mr.  Stone  moved,  but  did  not  answer. 

**It  dies,"  said  Hilary. 

**No,"  said  Mr.  Stone;  **it  is  at  peace." 

"When  is  self  at  peace  sir?  The  individual  is 
surely  as  immortal  as  the  universal.  That  is  the 
eternal   comedy  of  life."  "^ 

*'What  is?"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

"The   fight   between   the  two." 

Mr.  Stone  stood  a  moment  looking  wistfully  at  his 
son-in-law.  He  laid  down  the  sheet  of  manuscript. 
"  It  is  time  for  me  to  do  my  exercises."  So  saying,  he 
undid  the  tasselled  cord  tied  round  the  middle  of  his 
gown. 

Hilary  hastened  to  the  door.  From  that  point  of 
vantage  he  looked  back. 

Divested  of  his  gown  and  turned  towards  the  win- 
dow, Mr.  Stone  was  already  rising  on  his  toes,  hia 


124  Fraternity 

arms  were  extended,  his  palms  pressed  hard  together  in 
the  attitude  of  prayer,  his  trousers  slowly  slipping  down. 

**One,  two,  three,  four,  five!"  There  was  a  sudden 
sound  of  breath  escaping.  .  .  . 

In  the  corridor  upstairs,  flooded  with  moonlight 
from  a  window  at  the  end,  Hilary  stood  listening  again. 
The  only  sound  that  came  to  him  was  the  light  snoring 
of  Miranda,  who  slept  in  the  bathroom,  not  caring  to 
lie  too  near  to  anyone.  He  went  to  his  room,  and  for 
a  long  time  sat  buried  in  thought;  then,  opening  the 
side  window,  he  leaned  out.  On  the  trees  of  the  next 
garden,  and  the  sloping  roofs  of  stables  and  out-houses, 
the  moonlight  had  come  down  like  a  flight  of  milk- 
white  pigeons ;  with  outspread  wings,  vibrating  faintly 
as  though  yet  in  motion,  they  covered  everything. 
Nothing  stirred.  A  clock  was  striking  two.  Past 
that  flight  of  milk-white  pigeons  were  black  walls  as 
yet  un visited.  Then,  in  the  stillness,  Hilary  seemed 
to  hear,  deep  and  very  faint,  the  sound  as  of  some 
monster  breathing,  or  the  far  beating  of  muffled  drums. 
Prom  every  side  of  the  pale  sleeping  town  it  seemed  to 
come,  under  the  moon*s  cold  glamour.  It  rose,  and 
fell,  and  rose,  with  a  weird,  creepy  rhythm,  like  a 
groaning  of  the  hopeless  and  hungry.  A  hansom 
cab  rattled  down  the  High  Street ;  Hilary  strained  his 
ears  after  the  failing  clatter  of  hoofs  and  bell.  They 
died;  there  was  silence.  Creeping  nearer,  drumming, 
throbbing,  he  heard  again  the  beating  of  that  vast 
heart.  It  grew  and  grew.  His  own  heart  began 
thumping.  Then,  emerging  from  that  sinister  dumb 
groan,  he  distinguished  a  crunching  sound,  and  knew 
that  it  was  no  muttering  echo  of  men's  struggles,  but 
only  the  waggons  coming  into  Covent  Garden  Market. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A    WALK   ABROAD 

THYME  DALLISON,  in  the  midst  of  her  busy 
life,  found  leisure  to  record  her  recollections 
and  ideas  in  the  pages  of  old  school  notebooks.  She 
had  no  definite  purpose  in  so  doing,  nor  did  she  desire 
the  solace  of  luxuriating  in  her  private  feelings — this 
she  would  have  scorned  as  out  of  date  and  silly.  It 
was  done  from  the  fulness  of  youthful  energy,  and 
from  the  desire  to  express  oneself  that  was  **in  the 
air."  It  was  everywhere,  that  desire:  among  her 
fellow-students,  among  her  young  man  friends,  in 
her  mother's  drawing-room,  and  her  aunt's  studio. 
Like  sentiment  and  marriage  to  the  Victorian  miss, 
so  was  this  duty  to  express  herself  to  Thyme;  and, 
going  hand-in-hand  with  it,  the  duty  to  have  a  good 
and  jolly  youth.  She  never  read  again  the  thoughts 
which  she  recorded,  she  took  no  care  to  lock  them 
up,  knowing  that  her  liberty,  development,  and 
pleasure  were  sacred  things  which  no  one  would  dream 
of  touching — she  kept  them  stuffed  down  in  a  drawer 
among  her  handkerchiefs  and  ties  and  blouses, 
together  with  the  indelible  fragment  of  a  pencil. 

This  journal,  naive  and  slipshod,  recorded  without 
order  the  current  impression  of  things  on  her  mind. 

In  the  early  morning  of  the  4th  of  May  she  sat, 
night-gowned,  on  the  foot  of  her  white  bed,  with 
chestnut  hair  all  fluffy  about  her  neck,  eyes  bright 

125 


126  Fraternity 

and  cheeks  still  rosy  with  sleep,  scribbling  away  and 
rubbing  one  bare  foot  against  the  other  in  the  ecstasy 
of  self-expression.  Now  and  then,  in  the  middle  of 
a  sentence,  she  would  stop  and  look  out  of  the  window, 
or  stretch  herself  deliciously,  as  though  life  were  too 
full  of  joy  for  her  to  finish  anything. 

"I  went  into  grandfather's  room  yesterday,  and 
stayed  while  he  was  dictating  to  the  little  model.  I 
do  think  grandfather  's  so  splendid.  Martin  says  an 
enthusiast  is  worse  than  useless;  people,  he  says,  can't 
afford  to  dabble  in  ideas  or  dreams.  He  calls  grand- 
father's idea  palaeolithic.  I  hate  him  to  be  laughed  at. 
^  Martin  's  so  cocksure.  I  don't  think  that  he  'd  find 
'  many  men  of  eighty  who  'd  bathe  in  the  Serpentine  all 
the  year  round,  and  do  his  own  room,  cook  his  own 
food,  and  live  on  about  ninety  pounds  a  year  out  of 
his  pension  of  three  hundred,  and  give  all  the  rest 
away.  Martin  says  that  's  unsound,  and  the  Book 
of  Universal  Brotherhood  rot.  I  don't  care  if  it  is; 
it  's  fine  to  go  on  writing  it  as  he  does  all  day.  Martin 
admits  that.  That 's  the  worst  of  him:  he  's  so  cool, 
you  can't  score  him  off;  he  seems  to  be  always  criti- 
cising you;  it  makes  me  wild.  .  .  .  That  little  model 
is  a  hopeless  duffer.  I  could  have  taken  it  all  down  in 
half  the  time.  She  kept  stopping  and  looking  up 
with  that  mouth  of  hers  half  open,  as  if  she  had  all  day 
before  her.  Grandfather  's  so  absorbed  he  does  n't 
notice;  he  likes  to  read  the  thing  over  and  over,  to 
hear  how  the  words  sound.  That  girl  would  be  no 
good  at  any  sort  of  work,  except  'sitting,*  I  suppose. 
Aunt  B.  used  to  say  she  sat  well.  There  's  something 
queer  about  her  face;  it  reminds  me  a  little  of  that 
Botticelli  Madonna  in  the  National  Gallery,  the  full- 


A  Walk  Abroad  127 

face  one ;  not  so  much  in  the  shape  as  in  the  expression 
— almost  stupid,  and  yet  as  if  things  were  going  to 
happen  to  her.  Her  hands  and  arms  are  pretty,  and 
her  feet  are  smaller  than  mine.  She  's  two  years 
older  than  me.  I  asked  her  why  she  went  in  for  being 
a  model,  which  is  beastly  work.  She  said  she  was  glad 
to  get  anything!  I  asked  her  why  she  did  n't  go  into 
a  shop  or  into  service.  She  did  n't  answer  at  once, 
and  then  said  she  had  n't  had  any  recommendations — 
did  n't  know  where  to  try;  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she 
grew  quite  sulky,  and  said  she  did  n't  want  to.  .  .  ." 

Thyme  paused  to  pencil  in  a  sketch  of  the  little 
model's  profile.  .  .  . 

**She  had  on  a  really  pretty  frock,  quite  simple  and 
well  made — it  must  have  cost  three  or  four  pounds. 
She  can't  be  so  very  badly  off,  or  somebody  gave  it 
her.  .  .  ." 

And  again  Thyme  paused. 

**  She  looked  ever  so  much  prettier  in  it  than  she 
used  to  in  her  old  brown  skirt,  I  thought.  .  .  . 
Uncle  Hilary  came  to  dinner  last  night.  We  talked 
of  social  questions ;  we  always  discuss  things  when  he 
comes.  I  can't  help  liking  Uncle  Hilary;  he  has  such 
kind  eyes,  and  he  's  so  gentle  that  you  never  lose 
your  temper  with  him.  Martin  calls  him  weak  and 
unsatisfactory  because  he  's  not  in  touch  with  life. 
I  should  say  it  was  more  as  if  he  could  n't  bear  to 
force  anyone  to  do  anything;  he  seems  to  see  both 
sides  of  every  question,  and  he  's  not  good  at  making 
up  his  mind,  of  course.  He  's  rather  like  Hamlet 
might  have  been,  only  nobody  seems  to  know  now 
what  Hamlet  was  really  like.  I  told  him  what  I 
thought  about  the  lower  classes.     One  can  talk  to  him. 


128  Fraternity 

I  hate  father's  way  of  making  feeble  little  jokes,  as  if 
nothing  were  serious.  I  said  I  did  n*t  think  it  was 
any  use  to  dabble;  we  ought  to  go  to  the  root  of 
everything.  I  said  that  money  and  class  distinction^ 
are  two  bogeys  we  have  got  to  lay.  Martin  says,  when 
it  comes  to  real  dealing  with  social  questions  and  the 
poor,  all  the  people  we  know  are  amateurs.  He  says 
that  we  have  got  to  shake  ourselves  free  of  all  the 
old  sentimental  notions,  and  just  work  at  putting 
everything  to  the  test  of  Health.  Father  calls  Martin 
a  *Sanitist';  and  Uncle  Hilary  says  that  if  you 
wash  people  by  law  they  '11  all  be  as  dirty  again  to- 
morrow. ..." 

Thyme  paused  again.  A  blackbird  in  the  garden  of 
the  Square  was  uttering  a  long,  low,  chuckling  trill. 
She  ran  to  the  window  and  peeped  out.  The  bird  was 
on  a  plane-tree,  and,  with  throat  uplifted,  was  letting 
through  his  yellow  beak  that  delicious  piece  of  self- 
expression.  All  things  he  seemed  to  praise — the  sky, 
the  stm,  the  trees,  the  dewy  grass,  himself! 

**You  darling!"  thought  Thyme.  With  a  shudder 
of  delight  she  dropped  her  notebook  back  into  the 
drawer,  flung  off  her  nightgown,  and  flew  into  her  bath. 

That  same  morning  she  slipped  quietly  out  at  ten 
o'clock.  Her  Saturdays  were  free  of  classes,  but  she 
had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  her  mother's  liking  for  her 
company  and  her  father's  wish  for  her  to  go  with  him 
to  Richmond  and  play  golf.  For  on  Saturdays 
Stephen  almost  always  left  the  precincts  of  the 
Courts  before  three  o'clock.  Then,  if  he  could  induce 
his  wife  or  daughter  to  accompany  him,  he  liked  to 
get  a  round  or  two  in  preparation  for  Sunday,  when 
he  always  started  off  at  half-past  ten  and  played  all 


A  Walk  Abroad  129 

day.  If  Cecilia  and  Thyme  failed  him,  he  would  go 
to  his  club,  and  keep  himself  in  touch  with  every 
kind  of  social  movement  by  reading  the  reviews. 
•  Thyme  walked  along  with  her  head  up  and  a  wrinkle 
in  her  brow,  as  though  she  were  absorbed  in  serious 
reflection;  if  admiring  glances  were  flung  at  her,  she 
did  not  seem  aware  of  them.  Passing  not  far  from 
Hilary^s,  she  entered  the  Broad  Walk,  and  crossed  it 
to  the  farther  end. 

On  a  railing,  stretching  out  his  long  legs  and  observ- 
ing the  passers-by,  sat  her  cousin,  Martin  Stone.  He 
got  down  as  she  came  up. 

•*Late  again,"  he  said.     **Come  on!" 

"Where  are  we  going  first?*'  Thyme  asked. 

"The  Notting  Hill  district  *s  all  we  can  do  to-day  if 
we  Ve  to  go  again  to  Mrs.  Hughs's.  I  must  be  down  at 
the  hospital  this  afternoon.** 

Thyme  frowned.  'I  do  envy  you  living  by  your- 
self, Martin.     It  *s  silly  having  to  live  at  home.*' 

Martin  did  not  answer,  but  one  nostril  of  his  long 
nose  was  seen  to  curve,  and  Thyme  acquiesced  in  this 
without  remark.  They  walked  for  some  minutes 
between  tall  houses,  looking  about  them  calmly.  Then 
Martin  said:  "All  Purceys  round  here." 

Thyme  nodded.  Again  there  was  silence;  but  in 
these  pauses  there  was  no  embarrassment,  no  con- 
sciousness apparently  that  it  was  silence,  and  their 
eyes— those  young,  impatient,  interested  eyes— were 
for  ever  busy  observing. 

"Boundary  line.     We  shall  be  in  a  patch  directly." 

"Black?"  asked  Thyme. 

"Dark  blue— black  farther  on." 

They  were  passing  down  a  long,  grey,  curving  road, 


130  Fraternity 

whose  narrow  houses,  hopelessly  unpainted,  showed 
marks  of  grinding  poverty.  The  Spring  wind  was 
ruffling  straw  and  little  bits  of  paper  in  the  gutters; 
under  the  bright  sunlight  a  bleak  and  bitter  struggle 
seemed  raging.     Thyme  said: 

**This  street  gives  me  a  hollow  feeling.** 

Martin  nodded.  "Worse  than  the  real  article. 
There  's  half,  a  mile  of  this.  Here  it 's  all  grim 
fighting.     Farther  on  they  Ve  given  it  up." 

And  still  they  went  on  up  the  curving  street,  with  its 
few  pinched  shops  and  its  unending  narrow  grimness. 

At  the  comer  of  a  by-street  Martin  said:  *'We  11 
go  down  here.'* 

*' Thyme  stood  still,  wrinkling  her  nose.  Martin 
eyed  her. 

"Don't  funk!*' 

'*I  *m  not  funking,  Martin,  only  I  can't  stand  the 
smells." 

"You  11  have  to  get  used  to  them." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but — but  I  forgot  my  eucalyptus." 

The  young  man  took  out  a  handkerchief  which  had 
not  yet  been  unfolded. 

"Here,  take  mine.". 

"They  do  make  me  feel  so — it 's  a  shame  to  take 
yours,"  and  she  took  the  handkerchief. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Martin.     "Come  on!" 

The  houses  of  this  narrow  street,  inside  and  out, 
seemed  full  of  women.  Many  of  them  had  babies 
in  their  arms;  they  were  working  or  looking  out  of 
windows  or  gossiping  on  doorsteps.  And  all  stopped 
to  stare  as  the  young  couple  passed.  Thyme  stole  a 
look  at  her  companion.  His  long  stride  had  not 
varied;  there  was  the  usual  pale,  observant,  sarcastic 


A  Walk  Abroad  131 

expression  on  his  face.  Clenching  the  handkerchief 
in  readiness,  and  trying  to  imitate  his  callous  air, 
she  looked  at  a  group  of  five  women  on  the  nearest 
doorstep.  Three  were  seated  and  two  were  standing. 
One  of  these,  a  young  woman  with  a  round,  open  face, 
was  clearly  very  soon  to  have  a  child ;  the  other,  with 
a  short,  dark  face  and  iron-grey,  straggling  hair,  was 
smoking  a  clay  pipe.  Of  the  three  seated,  one,  quite 
young,  had  a  face  as  grey-white  as  a  dirty  sheet,  and  a 
blackened  eye ;  the  second,  with  her  ragged  dress  dis- 
arranged, was  nursing  a  baby;  the  third,  in  the  centre, 
on  the  top  step,  with  red  arms  akimbo,  her  face  scored 
with  drink,  was  shouting  friendly  obscenities  to  a 
neighbour  in  the  window  opposite.  In  Thyme's  heart 
rose  the  passionate  feeling,  "How  disgusting!  how 
disgusting!  ''  and  since  she  did  not  dare  to  give  expres- 
sion to  it,  she  bit  her  lips  and  turned  her  head  from 
them,  resenting,  with  all  a  young  girVs  horror,  that  her 
sex  had  given  her  away.  The  women  stared  at  her, 
and  in  those  faces,  according  to  their  different  tem- 
peraments, could  be  seen  first  the  same  vague,  hard 
interest  that  had  been  Thyme's  when  she  first  looked 
at  them,  then  the  same  secret  hostility  and  criticism, 
as  though  they  too  felt  that  by  this  young  girl's  un- 
touched modesty,  by  her  flushed  cheeks  and  unsoiled 
clothes,  their  sex  had  given  them  away.  With  con- 
temptuous movements  of  their  lips  and  bodies,  on  that 
doorstep  they  proclaimed  their  emphatic  belief  in  the 
virtue  and  reality  of  their  own  existences  and  in 
the  vice  and  unreality  of  her  intruding  presence. 

"Give  the  doll  to  Bill;  'e  'd  make  'er  work  for  once, 
the "     In  a  burst  of  laughter  the  epithet  was  lost 

Martin's  lips  curled. 


132  Fraternity 

"Purple  just  here/'  he  said. 

Thyme's  cheeks  were  crimson. 

At  the  end  of  the  little  street  he  stopped  before  a 
shop. 

**Come  on,"  he  said,  **you  *11  see  the  sort  of  place 
where  they  buy  their  grub.*' 

In  the  doorway  were  standing  a  thin  brown  spaniel, 
a  small  fair  woman  with  a  high,  bald  forehead,  from 
which  the  hair  was  gleaned  into  curl-papers,  and  a 
little  girl  with  some  affection  of  the  skin. 

Nodding  coolly,  Martin  motioned  them  aside.  The 
shop  was  ten  feet  square ;  its  counters,  running  parallel 
to  two  of  the  walls,  were  covered  with  plates  of  cake, 
sausages,  old  ham-bones,  peppermint  sweets,  and 
household  soap ;  there  were  also  bread,  margarine,  suet 
in  bowls,  sugar,  bloaters — many  bloaters — Captain's 
biscuits,  and  other  things  besides.  Two  or  three  dead 
rabbits  hung  against  the  wall.  All  was  uncovered,  so 
that  what  flies  there  were  sat  feeding  socialistically. 
Behind  the  counter  a  girl  of  seventeen  was  serving  a 
thin-faced  woman  with  portions  of  a  cheese  which  she 
was  holding  down  with  her  strong,  dirty  hand,  while 
she  sawed  it  with  a  knife.  On  the  counter,  next  the 
cheese,  sat  a  quiet-looking  cat. 

They  all  glanced  round  at  the  two  young  people, 
who  stood  and  waited. 

** Finish  what  you  're  at,"  said  Martin,  **then  give 
me  three  pennyworth  of  bull's-eyes." 

The  girl,  with  a  violent  effort,  finished  severing  the 
cheese  The  thin-faced  woman  took  it,  and,  coughing 
above  it,  went  away.  The  girl,  who  could  not  take 
her  eyes  off  Thyme,  now  served  them  with  three  penny- 
worth of  bull's-eyes,  which  she  took  out  with  her 


A  Walk  Abroad  133 

fingers,  for  they  had  stuck.  Putting  them  In  a  screw 
of  newspaper,  she  handed  them  to  Martin.  The 
young  man,  who  had  been  observing  negligently, 
touched  Thyme's  elbow.  She,  who  had  stood  with 
eyes  cast  down,  now  turned.  They  went  out,  Martin 
handing  the  bull's-eyes  to  the  little  girl  with  an  affec- 
tion of  the  skin. 

The  street  now  ended  in  a  wide  road  formed  of  little 
low  houses. 

**  Black,"  said  Martin,  **here;  all  down  this  road — 
casual  labour,  criminals,  loafers,  drunkards,  consumps. 
Look  at  the  faces!" 

Thyme  raised  her  eyes  obediently.  In  this  main 
thoroughfare  it  was  not  as  in  the  by-street,  and  only 
dull  or  sullen  glances,  or  none  at  all,  were  bent  on  her. 
Some  of  the  houses  had  ragged  plants  on  the  window- 
sills;  in  one  window  a  canary  was  singing.  Then,  at 
a  bend,  they  came  into  a  blacker  reach  of  human  river. 
Here  were  outbuildings,  houses  with  broken  windows, 
houses  with  winaows  boarded  up,  fried-fish  shops,  low 
public  houses,  houses  without  doors.  There  were 
more  men  here  than  women,  and  those  men  were 
wheeling  barrows  full  of  rags  and  bottles,  or  not  even 
full  of  rags  and  bottles;  or  they  were  standing  by  the 
public-houses  gossiping  or  quarrelling  in  groups  of 
three  or  four;  or  very  slowly  walking  in  the  gutters,  or 
on  the  pavements,  as  though  trying  to  remember  if 
they  were  alive.  Then  suddenly  some  young  man 
with  gaunt  violence  in  his  face  would  pass,  pushing  his 
barrow  desperately,  striding  fiercely  by.  And  every 
now  and  then,  from  a  fried-fish  or  hardware  shop 
would  come  out  a  man  in  a  dirty  apron  to  take  the 
sun  and  contemplate  the  scene,   not  finding  in  it, 


134  Fraternity 

seemingly,  anything  that  In  any  way  depressed  his 
spirit.  Amongst  the  constant,  crawling,  shifting, 
stream  of  passengers  were  seen  women  carrying  food 
wrapped  up  in  newspaper,  or  with  bundles  beneath 
their  shawls.  The  faces  of  these  women  were  gener- 
ally either  very  red  and  coarse  or  of  a  sort  of  bluish- 
white;  they  wore  the  expression  of  such  as  know 
themselves  to  be  existing  in  the  way  that  Providence 
has  arranged  they  should  exist.  No  surprise,  revolt, 
dismay,  or  shame  was  ever  to  be  seen  on  those  faces ; 
in  place  of  these  emotions  a  drab  and  brutish  ac- 
quiescence or  mechanical  coarse  jocularity.  To  pass 
like  this  about  their  business  was  their  occupation 
each  morning  of  the  year;  it  was  needful  to  accept  it. 
Not  having  any  hope  of  ever  being  different,  not 
being  able  to  imagine  any  other  life,  they  were  not 
so  wasteful  of  their  strength  as  to  attempt  either  to 
hope  or  to  imagine.  Here  and  there,  too,  very  slowly 
passed  old  men  and  women,  crawling  along,  like 
winter  bees  who,  in  some  strange  and  evil  moment, 
had  forgotten  to  die  in  the  sunlight  of  their  toil,  and, 
too  old  to  be  of  use,  had  been  chivied  forth  from  their 
hive  to  perish  slowly  in  the  cold  and  hungry  twilight. 
Down  the  centre  of  the  street  Thyme  saw  a  brewer*s 
dray  creeping  its  way  due  south  under  the  sun.  Three 
horses  drew  it,  with  braided  tails  and  beribboned 
manes,  the  brass  glittering  on  their  harness.  High  up, 
like  a  god,  sat  the  drayman,  his  little  slits  of  eyes, 
above  huge  red  cheeks,  fixed  immovably  on  his 
horses'  crests.  Behind  him,  with  slow,  unceasing 
crunch,  the  dray  rolled,  piled  up  with  hogsheads, 
whereon  the  drayman's  mate  lay  sleeping.  Like  the 
slumbrous  image  of  some  mighty  unrelenting  Power, 


A  Walk  Abroad  135 

it  passed,  proud  that  its  monstrous  bulk  contained  all 
the  joy  and  blessing  those  shadows  on  the  pavement 
had  ever  known. 

The  two  young  people  emerged  on  to  the  high  road 
running  east  and  west. 

''Cross  here,"  said  Martin,  **and  cut  down  into 
Kensington.  Nothing  more  of  interest  now  till  we  get 
to  Hound  Street.  Purceys  and  Purceys  all  round 
about  this  part.*' 

Thyme  shook  herself, 

**0  Martin,  let 's  go  down  a  road  where  there  's  some 
air.  I  feel  so  dirty.*'  She  put  her  *hand  up  to  her 
chest. 

** There  's  one  here,"  said  Martin. 

They  turned  to  the  left  into  a  road  that  had  many 
trees.  Now  that  she  could  breathe  and  look  about 
her,  Thyme  once  more  held  her  head  erect  and  began 
to  swing  her  arms. 

** Martin,  something  must  be  done!" 

The  young  doctor  did  not  reply;  his  face  still  wore 
its  pale,  sarcastic,  observant  look.  He  gave  her  arm 
a  squeeze  with  a  half-contemptuous  smile. 


CHAPTER  XV 

SECOND   PILGRIMAGE   TO    HOUND   STREET 

ARRIVING  in  Hound  Street,  Martin  Stone  and 
his  companion  went  straight  up  to  Mrs.  Hughs^s 
front  room.  They  found  her  doing  the  week's  wash- 
ing, and  hanging  out  before  a  scanty  fire  part  of  the 
little  that  the  week  had  been  suffered  to  soil.  Her 
arms  were  bare,  her  face  and  eyes  red ;  the  steam  of 
soapsuds  had  congealed  on  them. 

Attached  to  the  bolster  by  a  towel,  under  his  father's 
bayonet  and  the  oleograph  depicting  the  Nativity, 
sat  the  baby.  In  the  air  there  was  the  scent  of  him, 
of  walls,  and  washing,  and  red  herrings.  The  two 
young  people  took  their  seat  on  the  window-sill. 

**May  we  open  the  window,  Mrs.  Hughs?"  said 
Thyme.     **0r  will  it  hurt  the  baby?" 

"No,  miss." 

** What's  the  matter  with  your  wrists?"  asked 
Martin. 

The  seamstress,  mufHing  her  arms  with  the  garment 
she  was  dipping  in  soapy  water,  did  not  answer. 

** Don't  do  that.     Let  me  have  a  look." 

Mrs.  Hughs  held  out  her  arms;  the  wrists  were 
swollen   and   discoloured. 

"The  brute!"  cried  Thyme. 

The  young  doctor  muttered:  "Done  last  night. 
Got  any  arnica?" 

"No,  sir." 

136 


Second  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street  137 


it 


Of  course  not/'     He  laid  a  sixpence  on  the  sill. 

Get  some  and  rub  it  in.  Mind  you  don't  break  the 
skin." 

Thyme  suddenly  burst  out:  '*Why  don't  you  leave 
him,  Mrs.  Hughs?  Why  do  you  live  with  a  brute  like 
that?" 

Martin  frowned. 

**Any  particular  row,"  he  said,  *'or  only  just  the 
ordinary?" 

Mrs.  Hughs  turned  her  face  to  the  scanty  fire.  Her 
shoulders  heaved  spasmodically. 

Thus  passed  three  minutes,  then  she  again  began 
rubbing  the  soapy  garment. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I  '11  smoke,"  said  Martin. 
"What's  your  baby's  name?  Bill?  Here,  Bill!" 
He  placed  his  little  finger  in  the  baby's  hand.  "Feed- 
ing him  yourself?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What's  his  number?" 

"I  've  lost  three,  sir;  there 's  only  his  brother  Stan- 
ley now." 

"One  a  year?" 

"No,  sir.     I  missed  two  years  in  the  war,  of  course. " 

"Hughs  wounded  out  there?" 

"Yes,  sir — ^in  the  head." 

"Ah!    And  fever?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Martin  tapped  his  pipe  against  his  forehead. 
"Least  drop  of  liquor  goes  to  it,  I  suppose?" 

Mrs.  Hughs  paused  in  the  dipping  of  a  cloth;  her 
tear-stained  face  expressed  resentment,  as  though 
she  had  detected  an  attempt  to  find  excuses  for  her 
husband. 


138  Fraternity 

"He  did  n't  ought  to  treat  me  as  he  does,"  she  said. 

All  three  now  stood  round  the  bed,  over  which  the 
baby  presided  with  solemn  gaze. 

Thyme  said:  **I  would  n't  care  what  he  did,  Mrs. 
Hughs ;  I  would  n*t  stay  another  day  if  I  were  you. 
It 's  your  duty  as  a  woman/* 

To  hear  her  duty  as  a  woman  Mrs.  Hughs  turned; 
slow  vindictiveness  gathered  on  her  thin  face. 

**  Yes,  miss? "  she  said.     *'  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

**Take  the  children  and  go.  What 's  the  good  of 
waiting?  We  11  give  you  money  if  you  have  n't  got 
enough." 

But  Mrs.  Hughs  did  not  answer. 

**  Well?"  said  Martin,  blowing  out  a  cloud  of  smoke, 

Thyme  burst  out  again:  **Just  go,  the  very  minute 
your  little  boy  comes  back  from  school.  Hughs  '11 
never  find  you.  It  '11  serve  him  right.  No  woman 
ought  to  put  up  with  what  you  have;  it's  sim- 
ply weakness,  Mrs.  Hughs." 

As  though  that  word  had  forced  its  way  into  her 
very  heart  and  set  the  blood  free  suddenly,  Mrs. 
Hughs's  face  turned  the  colour  of  tomatoes.  She 
poured  forth  words: 

"And  leave  him  to  that  young  girl — ^and  leave  him 
to  his  wickedness!  After  I  've  been  his  wife  eight 
years  and  borne  him  five!  after  I  've  done  what  I 
have  for  him!  I  never  want  no  better  husband  than 
what  he  used  to  be,  till  she  came  with  her  pale  face 
and  her  priilky  manners,  and — ^and  her  mouth  that 
you  can  tell  she  's  bad  by.  Let  her  keep  to  her  pro- 
fession— ^sitting  naked  's  what  she  's  fit  for — coming 

here  to  decent  folk '*     And  holding  out  her  wrists 

to  Thyme,  who  had  shrunk  back,  she  cried:  "He  '• 


Second  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street  139 

never  struck  me  before.  I  got  these  all  because  of  her 
new  clothes!" 

Hearing  his  mother  speak  with  such  strange  passion 
the  baby  howled.  Mrs.  Hughs  stopped,  and  took  him 
up.  Pressing  him  close  to  her  thin  bosom,  she  looked 
above  his  little  dingy  head  at  the  two  young  people. 

**I  got  my  wrists  like  this  last  night,  wrestling  with 
him.  He  swore  he  'd  go  and  leave  me,  but  I  held  him, 
I  did.  And  don't  you  ever  think  that  I  '11  let  him  go 
to  that  young  girl — ^not  if  he  kills  me  first!" 

With  those  words  the  passion  in  her  face  died  down. 
She  was  again  a  meek,  mute  woman. 

During  this  outbreak,  Thyme,  shrinking,  stood  by 
the  doorway  with  lowered  eyes.  She  now  looked  up 
at  Martin,  clearly  asking  him  to  come  away.  The 
latter  had  kept  his  gaze  fixed  on  Mrs.  Hughs,  smoking 
silently.  He  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
pointed  with  it  at  the  baby. 

"This  gentleman,"  he  said,  **can't  stand  too  much 
of  that." 

In  silence  all  three  bent  their  eyes  on  the  baby. 
His  little  fists,  and  nose,  and  forehead,  even  his  little 
naked,  crinkled  feet,  were  thrust  with  all  his  feeble 
strength  against  his  mother's  bosom,  as  though  he 
were  striving  to  creep  into  some  hole  away  from  life. 
There  was  a  sort  of  dumb  despair  in  that  tiny  pushing 
of  his  way  back  to  the  place  whence  he  had  come. 
His  head,  covered  with  dingy  down,  quivered  with  his 
effort  to  escape.  He  had  been  alive  so  little;  that 
little  had  sufficed.  Martin  put  his  pipe  back  into  his 
mouth. 

"This  won't  do,  you  know,"  he  said.  "He  can't 
Stand  it.    And  look  here!    If  you  stop  feeding  him, 


I40  Fraternity 

I  would  n't  give  that  for  him  to-morrow!''  He  held 
up  the  circle  of  his  thumb  and  finger.  "You  're  the 
best  judge  of  what  sort  of  chance  you've  got  of 
going  on  in  your  present  state  of  mind!"  Then, 
motioning  to  Thyme,  he  went  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BENEATH  THE    ELMS 

SPRING  was  in  the  hearts  of  men,  and  their  tall 
companions,  trees.  Their  troubles,  the  stiflingt 
of  each  other's  growth,  and  all  such  things,  seemed  of 
little  moment.  Spring  had  them  by  the  throat.  It 
turned  old  men  round,  and  made  them  stare  at 
women  younger  than  themselves.  It  made  young 
men  and  women  walking  side  by  side  touch  each 
other,  and  every  bird  on  the  branches  tune  his  pipe. 
Flying  sunlight  speckled  the  fluttered  leaves,  and 
flushed  the  cheeks  of  crippled  boys  who  limped  into 
the  Gardens,  till  their  pale  Cockney  faces  shone  with 
a  strange  glow. 

In  the  Broad  Walk,  beneath  those  dangerous  trees, 
the  elms,  people  sat  and  took  the  sun — cheek  by  jowl, 
generals  and  nursemaids,  parsons  and  the  unemployed. 
Above,  in  that  Spring  wind,  the  elm-tree  boughs  were 
swaying,  rustling,  creaking  ever  so  gently,  carrying  on 
the  innumerable  talk  of  trees — ^their  sapient,  wordless 
conversation  over  the  affairs  of  men.  It  was  pleasant, 
too,  to  see  and  hear  the  myriad  movement  of  the  mil- 
lion little  separate  leaves,  each  shaped  differently, 
flighting  never  twice  alike,  yet  all  obedient  to  the 
single  spirit  of  their  tree. 

Thyme  and  Martin  were  sitting  on  a  seat  beneath 
the  largest  of  all  the  elms.  Their  manner  lacked  the 
unconcern  and  dignity  of  the  moment,  when,  two 

141 


Fraternity 

hu,.  ;-t;,  ihey  had  started  forth  on  their  discovery 

fi  on^  .„  .  L  thcx  end  of  the  Broad  Walk.     Martin  spoke : 

**It  's  given  you  the  hump!  First  sight  of  blood, 
and  you  're  like  all  the  rest  of  them!" 

*  *  I  *m  not,  Martin.     How  perfectly  beastly  of  you !  *' 

**0h,  yes,  you  are.  There  's  plenty  of  sestheticism 
about  you  and  your  people — ^plenty  of  good  intentions 
— ^but  not  an  ounce  of  real  business!" 

**  Do  n't  abuse  my  people;  they  're  just  as  kind  as 
you!'* 

**0h,  they  're  kind  enough,  and  they  can  see  what 's 
wrong.  It  's  not  that  which  stops  them.  But  your 
dad  's  a  regular  official.  He  's  got  so  much  sense  of 
what  he  ought  not  to  do  that  he  never  does  anything ;  ^ 
just  as  Hilary 's  got  so  much  consciousness  of  what  he 
ought  to  do  that  he  never  does  anything.  You  went 
to  that  woman's  this  morning  with  your  ideas  of  help- 
ing her  all  cut  and  dried,  and  now  that  you  find  the 
facts  are  n't  what  you  thought,  you  're  stumped!" 

"One  can't  believe  anything  they  say.  That's 
what  I  hate.  I  thought  Hughs  simply  knocked  her 
about.     I  did  n't  know  it  was  her  jealousy " 

**0f  course  you  didn't.  Do  you  imagine  those 
people  give  anything  away  to  our  sort  unless  they  're 
forced?     They  know  better." 

*' Well,  I  hate  the  whole  thing — it 's  all  so  sordid!" 

"O  Lord!"  _ 

"Well,  it  is!  I  don't  feel  that  I  want  to  help  a 
woman  who  can  say  and  feel  such  horrid  things,  or  the 
girl,  or  any  of  them." 

"Who  cares  what  they  say  or  feel?  that 's  not  the 
point.  It  's  simply  a  case  of  common  sense.  Your 
people  put  that  girl  there,  and  they  must  get  her  to 


Beneath  the  Elms  -^ 

clear  out  again  sharp.     It  's  just  a  quct 
healthy/' 

"  Well,  I  know  it  's  not  healthy  foi  me  to  have 
anything  to  do  with,  and  I  won't!  I  don't  believe 
you  can  help  people  unless  they  want  to  be  helped. " 

Martin  whistled. 

**You 're  rather  a  brute,  I  think,"  said  Thyme. 

*'A  brute,  not  rather  a  brute.  That 's  all  the 
difference." 

"For  the  worse!'* 

''I  don't  think  so.     Thyme!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Look  at  me." 

Very  slowly  Thyme  turned  her  eyes. 

"Well?" 

"Are  you  one  of  us,  or  are  you  not?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"You're  not!" 

"I  am." 

"Well,  don't  let 's  fight  about  it.  Give  me  your 
hand." 

He  dropped  his  hand  on  hers.  Her  face  had 
flushed  rose  colour.  Suddenly  she  freed  herself. 
"Here's  Uncle  Hilary!" 

It  was  indeed  Hilary,  with  Miranda  trotting  in  ad- 
vance. His  hands  were  crossed  behind  him,  his  face 
bent  towards  the  ground.  The  two  young  people  on 
the  bench  sat  looking  at  him. 

"Buried  in  self-contemplation,"  murmured  Mar- 
tin; "that 's  the  way  he  always  walks.  I  shall  tell 
him  about  this!" 

The  colour  of  Thyme's  face  deepened  from  rose  to 
crimson. 


144  Fraternity 

**Why  not?" 

"Well— those    new "    She    could    not    bring 

out  that  word  "clothes."  It  would  have  given  her 
thoughts  away. 

Hilary  seemed  making  for  their  seat,  but  Miranda, 
aware  of  Martin,  stopped.  "A  man  of  action!'*  she 
appeared  to  say.  "The  one  who  pulls  my  ears.*' 
And  turning,  as  though  unconscious,  she  endeavoured 
to  lead  Hilary  away.  Her  master,  however,  had 
already  seen  his  niece.  He  came  and  sat  down  on 
the  bench  beside  her. 

"We  wanted  you!'*  said  Martin,  eyeing  him  slowly, 
as  a  young  dog  will  eye  another  of  a  different  age  and 
breed.  "Thyme  and  I  have  been  to  see  the  Hughs 
in  Hound  Street.  Things  are  blowing  up  for  a  mess. 
You,  or  whoever  put  the  girl  there,  ought  to  get  her 
away  again  as  quick  as  possible.** 

Hilary  seemed  at  once  to  withdraw  into  himself. 

"Well,**  he  said,  "let  us  hear  all  about  it.** 

" The  woman  *s  jealous  of  her ;  that  *s  all  the  trouble  !'* 

"Oh!**  said  Hilary;  "that*s  all  the  trouble?'* 

Thyme  murmured:  "I  don't  see  a  bit  why  Uncle 
Hilary  should  bother.  If  they  will  be  so  horrid — I 
did  n't  think  the  poor  were  like  that.  I  did  n't 
think  they  had  it  in  them.  I  *m  sure  the  girl  is  n't 
worth  it,  or  the  woman  either!" 

"I  did  n't  say  they  were,"  growled  Martin.  "It 's 
a  question  of  what 's  healthy." 

Hilary  looked  from  one  of  his  young  companions 
to  the  other. 

"I  see,**  he  said.  "I  thought  perhaps  the  matter 
was  more  delicate.** 


Beneath  the  Elms 

Martin  's  lip  curled. 

** Ah,  your  precious  delicacy!  What 's  the  good  of 
that?    What  did  it  ever  do?     It  *s  th(  .„^ 

you  're  all  suffering  from.  Why  don't  you  act? 
You  could  think  about  it  afterwards." 

A  flush  came  into  Hilary's  sallow  cheeks. 

**Do  you  never  think  before  you  act,  Martin?'* 

Martin  got  up  and  stood  looking  down  on  Hilary. 

'*Look  here!"  he  said;  "I  don't  go  in  for  your 
subtleties.  I  use  my  eyes  and  nose.  I  can  see  that 
the  woman  will  never  be  able  to  go  on  feeding  the 
baby  in  the  neurotic  state  she  's  in.  It 's  a  matter 
of  health  for  both  of  them. " 

"Is  everything  a  matter  of  health  with  you?" 

**  It  is.  Take  any  subject  that  you  like.  Take  the 
poor  themselves — what 's  wanted?  Health.  Noth- 
ing on  earth  but  health!  The  discoveries  and  in- 
ventions of  the  last  century  have  knocked  the  floor 
out  of  the  old  order;  we  Ve  got  to  put  a  new  one  in, 
and  we  're  going  to  put  it  in,  too — the  floor  of  health. 
The  crowd  does  n't  yet  see  what  it  wants,  but  they  're 
looking  for  it,  and  when  we  show  it  them  they  '11 
catch  on  fast  enough." 

"But  who  are  *you'?"  murmured  Hilary. 

"Who  are  we?  I  '11  tell  you  one  thing.  While 
all  the  reformers  are  pecking  at  each  other  we  shall 
quietly  come  along  and  swallow  up  the  lot.  We  've 
simply  grasped  this  elementary  fact,  that  theories  are 
no  basis  for  reform.  We  go  on  the  evidence  of  our 
eyes  and  noses;  what  we  see  and  smell  is  wrong  we 
correct  by  practical  and  scientific  means." 

"Will  you  apply  that  to  human  nature?" 

"It's  human  nature  to  want  health." 


146  Fraternity 

''I  wonder!  It  doesn't  look  much  like  It  at 
present." 

"Take  the  case  of  this  woman.'* 

"Yes,"  said  Hilary,  "take  her  case.  You  can't 
make  this  too  clear  to  me,  Martin." 

"She  's  no  use — poor  sort  altogether.  The  man  's 
no  use.  A  man  who  's  been  wounded  in  the  head, 
and  is  n't  a  teetotaller,  is  done  for.  The  girl  's  no 
use — regular  pleasure-loving  type!" 

Thyme  flushed  crimson,  and,  seeing  that  flood  of 
colour  in  his  niece's  face,  Hilary  bit  his  lips. 

"The  only  things  worth  considering  are  the  children. 
There  's  this  baby — ^well,  as  I  said,  the  important 
thing  is  that  the  mother  should  be  able  to  look  after 
it  properly.  Get  hold  of  tha^,  and  let  the  other  facts 
go  hang." 

"Forgive  me,  but  my  difficulty  is  to  isolate  this 
question  of  the  baby's  health  from  all  the  other 
circumstances  of  the  case." 

Martin  grinned. 

"And  you'll  make  that  an  excuse,  I  'm  certain, 
for  doing  nothing." 

Thyme  slipped  her  hand  into  Hilary's. 

"You  are  a  brute,  Martin,"  she  murmured. 

The  young  man  turned  on  her  a  look  that  said: 
"It 's  no  use  calling  me  a  brute;  I  'm  proud  of  being 
one.    Besides,  you  know  you  don't  dislike  it." 

"It 's  better  to  be  a  brute  than  an  amateur,"  he 
said. 

Thyme,  pressing  close  to  Hilary,  as  though  he 
needed  her  protection,  cried  out : 

"Martin,  you  really  are  a  Goth!" 

Hilary  was  still  smiling,  but  his  face  quivered* 


Beneath  the  Elms 

"Not  at  all/'  he  said.     *' Martin's  \  ^  of  c 

nosis  do  him  credit/'    And,  raising  his  i 

away. 

The  two  young  people,  both  on  their  teet  uuvv, 
looked  after  him.  Martin's  face  was  a  queer  study 
of  contemptuous  compunction;  Thyme's  was  startled, 
softened,  almost  tearful. 

**It  won't  do  him  any  harm,"  muttered  the  young 
man.    **It  '11  shake  him  up." 

Thyme  flashed  a  vicious  look  at  him. 

**I  hate  you  sometimes,"  she  said.  **You're  so 
coarse-grained — your  skin  's  just  like  leather." 

Martin's  hand  descended  on  her  wrist. 

**And  yours,"  he  said,  **is  tissue-paper.  You're 
all  the  same,  you  amateurs." 

**I  'd  rather  be  an  amateur  than  a —  a  bounder!" 

Martin  made  a  queer  movement  of  his  jaw,  then 
smiled.  That  smile  seemed  to  madden  Thyme. 
She  wrenched  her  wrist  away  and  darted  after 
Hilary. 

Martin  impassively  looked  after  her.  Taking  out 
his  pipe,  he  filled  it  with  tobacco,  slowly  pressing 
the  golden  threads  down  into  the  bowl  with  his  little 
finger. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

TWO    BROTHERS 

IT  has  been  said  that  Stephen  Dallison,  when 
unable  to  get  his  golf  on  Saturdays,  went  to 
his  club  and  read  reviews.  The  two  forms  of 
exercise,  in  fact,  were  very  similar:  in  playing  golf 
you  went  round  and  round;  in  reading  reviews 
you  did  the  same,  for  in  course  of  time  you  were 
assured  of  coming  to  articles  that  nullified  articles 
already  read.  In  both  forms  of  sport  the  balance 
was  preserved  which  keeps  a  man  both  sound  and 
young. 

And  to  be  sound  and  young  was  to  Stephen  an 
everyday  necessity.  He  was  essentially  a  Cam- 
bridge man,  springy  and  undemonstrative,  with 
just  that  air  of  taking  a  continual  pinch  of  peculiarly 
perfect  snuff.  Underneath  this  manner  he  was  a 
good  worker,  a  good  husband,  a  good  father,  and 
nothing  could  be  urged  against  him  except  his 
regularity  and  the  fact  that  he  was  never  in  the 
wrong.  Where  he  worked,  and  indeed  in  other 
places,  many  men  were  like  him.  In  one  respect 
he  resembled  them,  perhaps,  too  much — he  disliked 
leaving  the  ground  unless  he  knew  precisely  where 
he  was  coming  down  again. 

He  and  Cecilia  had  **got  on''  from  the  first.  They 
had  both  desired  to  have  one  child — ^no  more;  they 
had  both  desired  to  keep  up  with  the  times — ^no 

i4d 


Two  Brothers  149 

more;  they  now  both  considered  Hilary's  position 
awkward — ^no  more;  and  when  Cecilia,  in  the  special 
Jacobean  bed,  and  taking  care  to  let  him  have  his 
sleep  out  first,  had  told  him  of  this  matter  of  the 
Hughs,  they  had  both  turned  it  over  very  carefully 
lying  on  their  backs,  and  speaking  in  grave  tones. 
Stephen  was  of  the  opinion  that  poor  old  Hilary 
must  look  out  what  he  was  doing.  Beyond  this 
he  did  not  go,  keeping  even  from  his  wife  the  more 
unpleasant  of  what  seemed  to  him  the  possibilities. 

Then,  in  the  words  she  had  used  to  Hilary,  Cecilia 
spoke: 

**It  's  so  sordid,  Stephen." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  almost  with  one  accord 
they  both  said: 

"But  it 's  all  nonsense!" 

These  speeches,  so  simultaneous,  stimulated  them 
to  a  robuster  view.  What  was  this  affair,  if  real, 
but  the  sort  of  episode  that  they  read  of  !n  their 
papers?  What  was  it,  if  true,  but  a  duplicate  of 
some  bit  of  fiction  or  drama  which  they  daily  saw 
described  by  that  word  ** sordid"?  Cecilia,  indeed, 
had  used  this  word  instinctively.  It  had  come  into 
her  mind  at  once.  The  whole  affair  disturbed  her 
ideals  of  virtue  and  good  taste — ^that  particular 
mental  atmosphere  mysteriously,  inevitably  woven 
round  the  soul  by  the  conditions  of  special  breeding 
and  special  life.  If,  then,  this  affair  were  real  it  was 
sordid,  and  if  it  were  sordid  it  was  repellent  to  suppose 
that  her  family  could  be  mixed  up  in  it;  but  her 
people  were  mixed  up  in  it,  therefore  it  must  be — 
nonsense! 

So   the   matter   rested   until   Thyme   came   back 


ISO  Fraternity 

from  her  visit  to  her  grandfather,  and  told  them  of 
the  little  model's  new  and  pretty  clothes.  When 
she  detailed  this  news  they  were  all  sitting  at  dinner, 
over  the  ordering  of  which  Cecilia's  loyalty  had 
been  taxed  till  her  little  headache  came,  so  that 
there  might  be  nothing  too  conventional  to  over- 
nourish  Stephen  or  so  essentially  aesthetic  as  not 
to  nourish  him  at  all.  The  man-servant  being  in 
the  room,  they  neither  of  them  raised  their  eyes. 
But  when  he  was  gone  to  fetch  the  bird,  each  found 
the  other  looking  furtively  across  the  table.  By 
some  queer  misfortune  the  word  ** sordid"  had 
leaped  into  their  minds  again.  Who  had  given  her 
those  clothes?  But  feeling  that  it  was  sordid  to 
pursue  this  thought,  they  looked  away,  and,  eating 
hastily,  began  pursuing  it.  Being  man  and  woman, 
they  naturally  took  a  different  line  of  chase,  Cecilia 
hunting  in  one  grove  and  Stephen  in  another. 

Thus  ran  Stephen's  pack  of  meditations: 

*'If  old  Hilary  has  been  giving  her  money  and 
clothes  and  that  sort  of  thing,  he  's  a  greater  duffer 
than  I  took  him  for,  or  there 's  something  in  it. 
B.'s  got  herself  to  thank,  but  that  won't  help  to 
keep  Hughs  quiet.  He  wants  money,  I  expect. 
Oh,  damn!" 

Cecilia's  pack  ran  other  ways: 

**I  know  the  girl  can't  have  bought  those  things 
out  of  her  proper  earnings.  I  believe  she  's  a  really 
bad  lot.  I  don't  like  to  think  it,  but  it  must  be 
so.  Hilary  can't  have  been  so  stupid  after  what  I 
said  to  him.  If  she  really  is  bad,  it  simplifies  things 
very  much;  but  Hilary  is  just  the  sort  of  man  who 
will  never  believe  it.     Oh,  dear!" 


Two  Brothers  151 

It  was,  to  be  quite  fair,  immensely  difficult  for 
Stephen  and  his  wife — or  any  of  their  class  and 
circle — ^in  spite  of  genuinely  good  intentions,  to 
really  feel  the  existence  to  their  '^shadows,'*  except 
in  so  far  as  they  saw  them  on  the  pavements.  They 
knew  that  these  people  lived,  because  they  saw 
them,  but  they  did  not  feel  it — ^with  such  extra- 
ordinary care  had  the  web  of  social  life  been  spun. 
They  were,  and  were  bound  to  be,  as  utterly  divorced 
from  understanding  of,  or  faith  in,  all  that  shadowy 
life,  as  those  ** shadows"  in  their  by-streets  were 
from  knowledge  or  belief  that  gentlefolk  really 
existed  except  in  so  far  as  they  had  money  from 
them. 

Stephen  and  Cecilia,  and  their  thousands,  knew 
these  *' shadows"  as  **the  people,"  knew  them  as 
slums,  as  districts,  as  sweated  industries,  or  different 
sorts  of  workers,  knew  them  in  the  capacity  of 
persons  performing  odd  jobs  for  them ;  but  as  human 
beings  possessing  the  same  faculties  and  passions 
with  themselves,  they  did  not,  could  not,  know 
them.  The  reason,  the  long  reason,  extending  back 
through  generations,  was  so  plain,  so  very  simple, 
that  it  was  never  mentioned — in  their  heart  of 
hearts,  where  there  was  no  room  for  cant,  they  knew 
it  to  be  just  a  little  matter  of  the  senses.  They 
knew  that,  whatever  they  might  say,  whatever 
money  they  might  give,  or  time  devote,  their  hearts 
could  never  open,  unless — unless  they  closed  their 
ears,  and  eyes,  and  noses.  This  little  fact,  more 
potent  than  all  the  teaching  of  philosophers,  than 
every  Act  of  Parliament,  and  all  the  sermons  ever 
preached,  reigned  paramount,  supreme.     It  divided 


152  Fraternity- 

class  from  class,  man  from  his  shadow — ^as  the  Great 
Underlying  Law  had  set  dark  apart  from  light. 

On  this  little  fact,  too  gross  to  mention,  they 
and  their  kind  had  in  secret  built  and  built,  till  it 
was  not  too  much  to  say  that  laws,  worship,  trade, 
and  every  art  were  based  on  it,  if  not  in  theory,  then 
in  fact.  For  it  must  not  be  thought  that  those  eyes 
were  dull  or  that  nose  plain — no,  no,  those  eyes 
could  put  two  and  two  together ;  that  nose,  of  myriad 
fancy,  could  imagine  countless  things  unsmelled 
which  must  lie  behind  a  state  of  life  not  quite  its 
own.  It  could  create,  as  from  the  scent  of  an  old 
slipper  dogs  create  their  masters. 

So  Stephen  and  Cecilia  sat,  and  their  butler  brought 
in  the  bird.  It  was  a  nice  one,  nourished  down  in 
Surrey,  and  as  he  cut  it  into  portions  the  butler's 
soul  turned  sick  within  him — not  because  he  wanted 
some  himself,  or  was  a  vegetarian,  or  for  any  sort 
of  principle,  but  because  he  was  by  natural  gifts 
an  engineer,  and  deadly  tired  of  cutting  up  and 
handing  birds  to  other  people  and  watching  while 
they  ate  them.  Without-  a  glimmer  of  expression 
on  his  face  he  put  the  portions  down  before  the 
persons  who,  having  paid  .him  to  do  so,  could  not 
tell  his  thoughts. 

That  same  night,  after  working  at  a  Report  on 
the  present  Laws  of  Bankruptcy,  which  he  was 
then  drawing  up,  Stephen  entered  the  joint  apart- 
ment with  excessive  caution,  having  first  made 
all  his  dispositions,  and,  stealing  to  the  bed,  slipped 
into  it.  He  lay  there,  offering  himself  congratulations 
that  he  had  not  awakened  Cecilia,  and  Cecilia,  who 
was  wide  awake,  knew  by  his  unwonted  carefulness 


Two  Brothers  153 

that  he  had  come  to  some  conclusion  which  he  did 
not  wish  to  impart  to  her.  Devoured  therefore  by 
disquiet,  she  lay  sleepless  till  the  clock  struck  two. 

The  conclusion  to  which  Stephen  had  come  was 
this:  Having  twice  gone  through  the  facts — Hilary's 
corporeal  separation  from  Bianca  (communicated  to 
him  by  Cecilia),  cause  unknowable;  Hilary's  interest 
in  the  little  model,  cause  unknown;  her  known 
poverty;  her  employment  by  Mr.  Stone;  her  tenancy 
of  Mrs.  Hughs*s  room;  the  latter's  outburst  to  Cecilia; 
Hughs's  threat ;  and,  finally,  the  girl's  pretty  clothes — 
he  had  summed  it  up  as  just  a  common  **  plant," 
to  which  his  brother's  possibly  innocent,  but  in  any 
case  imprudent,  conduct  had  laid  him  open.  It 
was  a  man's  affair.  He  resolutely  tried  to  look  on 
the  whole  thing  as  unworthy  of  attention,  to  feel 
that  nothing  would  occur.  He  failed  dismally, 
for  three  reasons.  First,  his  inherent  love  of  reg-  a 
ularity,  of  having  everything  in  proper  order; 
secondly,  his  ingrained  mistrust  of  and  aversion 
from  Bianca;  thirdly,  his  unavowed  conviction,  for 
all  his  wish  to  be  sympathetic  to  them,  that  the 
lower  classes  always  wanted  r>omething  out  of  you. 
It  was  a  question  of  how  much  they  would  want, 
and  whether  it  were  wise  to  give  them  anything. 
He  decided  that  it  would  not  be  wise  at  all.  What 
then?  Impossible  to  say.  It  worried  him.  He  had 
a  natural  horror  of  any  sort  of  scandal,  and  he  was 
very  fond  of  Hilary.  If  only  he  knew  the  attitude 
Bianca  would  take  up!    He  could  not  even  guess  it. 

Thus,  on  that  Saturday  afternoon,  the  4th  of 
May,  he  felt  for  once  such  a  positive  aversion  from 
the  reading  of  reviews,  as  men  will  feel  as  to  their 


1 54  Fraternity 

usual  occupations  when  their  nerves  have  been 
disturbed.  He  stayed  late  at  Chambers,  and  came 
straight  home  outride  an  omnibus. 

The  tide  of  life  was  flowing  in  the  town.  The 
streets  were  awash  with  wave  on  wave  of  humanity, 
sucked  into  a  thousand  crossing  currents.  Here 
men  and  women  were  streaming  out  from  the  meeting 
of  a  religious  congress,  there  streaming  in  at  the 
gates  of  some  social  function;  like  bright  water 
confined  within  long  shelves  of  rock  and  dyed  with 
myriad  scales  of  shifting  colour,  they  thronged 
Rotten  Row,  and  along  the  closed  shop-fronts  were 
woven  into  an  inextricable  network  of  little  human 
runlets.  And  everywhere  amongst  this  sea  of  men 
and  women  could  be  seen  their  shadows,  meandering 
like  streaks  of  grey  slime  stirred  up  from  the  lower 
depths  by  some  huge,  never-ceasing  finger.  The 
innumerable  roar  of  that  human  sea  climbed  out 
above  the  roofs  and  trees,  and  somewhere  in  illimit- 
able space  blended,  and  slowly  reached  the  meeting- 
point  of  sound  and  silence — that  Heart  where 
Life,  leaving  its  little  forms  and  barriers,  clasps 
Death,  and  from  that  clasp  springs  forth  new- 
formed,  within  new  barriers. 

Above  this  crowd  of  his  fellow- creatures  Stephen 
drove,  and  the  same  Spring  wind  that  had  made 
the  elm-trees  talk,  whispered  to  him,  and  tried 
to  tell  him  of  the  million  flowers  it  had  fertilised, 
the  million  leaves  uncurled,  the  million  ripples  it 
had  awakened  on  the  sea,  of  the  million  flying  shadows 
flung  by  it  across  the  Downs,  and  how  into  men's 
hearts  its  scent  had  driven  a  million  longings  and 
sweet  pains. 


Two  Brothers  155 

It  was  but  moderately  successful,  for  Stephen, 
like  all  men  of  culture  and  neat  habits,  took  Nature 
only  at  those  moments  when  he  had  gone  out  to 
take  her,  and  of  her  wild  heart  he  had  a  secret  fear. 

On  his  own  doorstep  he  encountered  Hilary  coming 
out. 

'*I  ran  across  Th5mie  and  Martin  in  the  gardens," 
the  latter  said.  '*  Thyme  brought  me  back  to  lunch, 
and  here  I  've  been  ever  since." 

**Did  she  bring  our  yotmg  Sanitist  in  too?"  asked 
Stephen  dubiously. 

"No,"  said  Hilary. 

"Good!    That  young  man  gets  on  my  nerves." 

Taking  his  elder  brother  by  the  arm,  he  added: 
"Will  you  come  in  again,  old  boy,  or  shall  we  go 
for  a  stroll?" 

"A  stroll,"  said  Hilary. 

Though  different  enough,  perhaps  because  they 
were  so  different,  these  two  brothers  had  the  real 
affection  for  each  other  which  depends  on  something 
deeper  and  more  elementary  than  a  similarity  of 
sentiments,  and  is  permanent  because  unconnected 
with  the  reasoning  powers.  It  depended  on  the 
countless  times  they  had  kissed  and  wrestled  as 
tiny  boys,  slept  in  small  beds  alongside,  refused 
to  "tell"  about  each  other,  and  even  now  and  then 
taken  up  the  burden  of  each  other's  peccadilloes. 
They  might  get  irritated  or  tired  of  being  in  each 
other's  company,  but  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  either  to  have  been  disloyal  to  the  other  in  any 
circumstances,  because  of  that  traditional  loyalty 
which  went  back  to  their  cribs. 

Preceded    by    Miranda,    they   walked    along    the 


is6  Fraternity 

flower  walk  towards  the  Park,  talking  of  indifferent 
things,  though  in  his  heart  each  knew  well  enough 
what  was  in  the  other's. 

Stephen  broke  through  the  hedge. 

"Cis  has  been  telling  me,"  he  said,  "that  this 
man  Hughs  is  making  trouble  of  some  sort.*' 

Hilary  nodded. 

Stephen  glanced  a  little  anxiously  at  his  brother's 
face;  it  struck  him  as  looking  different,  neither  so 
gentle  nor  so  impersonal  as  usual. 

"He  's  a  ruffian,  isn't  he?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  Hilary  answered.  "Probably 
not." 

"He  must  be,  old  chap,"  murmured  Stephen. 
Then,  with  a  friendly  pressure  of  his  brother's  arm, 
he  added: 

"  Look  here,  old  boy,  can  I  be  of  any  use?*' 

'  *  In  what  ? ' '  asked  Hilary. 

Stephen  took  a  hasty  mental  view  of  his  position ; 
he  had  been  in  danger  of  letting  Hilary  see  that  he 
suspected  him.  Frowning  slightly,  and  with  some 
colour  in  his  clean-shaven  face,  he  said: 

"Of  course,  there  's  nothing  in  it." 

"In  what?"  said  Hilary  again. 

"  In  what  this  ruffian  says." 

**No,"  said  Hilary,  "there's  nothing  in  it,  though 
what  there  may  be  if  people  give  me  credit  for  what 
there  is  n't,  is  another  thing." 

Stephen  digested  this  remark,  which  hurt  him. 
He  saw  that  his  suspicions  had  been  fathomed,  and 
this  injured  his  opinion  of  his  own  diplomacy. 

"You  mustn't  lose  your  head,  old  man,"  be  said 
at  last. 


Two  Brothers  157 

They  were  crossing  the  bridge  over  the  Serpentine. 
On  the  bright  waters,  below,  young  clerks  were 
sculling  their  inamoratas  up  and  down;  the  ripples 
set  free  by  their  oars  gleamed  beneath  the  sun, 
and  ducks  swam  lazily  along  the  banks.  Hilary 
leaned  over. 

"Look  here,  Stephen,  I  take  an  interest  in  this 
child — she  's  a  helpless  sort  of  little  creature,  and 
she  seems  to  have  put  herself  under  my  protection. 
I  can't  help  that.  But  that  *s  all.  Do  you  under- 
stand?*' 

This  speech  produced  a  queer  turmoil  in  Stephen, 
as  though  his  brother  had  accused  him  of  a  petty 
view  of  things.  Feeling  that  he  must  justify  himself 
somehow,  he  began: 

'*0h,  of  course  I  understand,  old  boy!  But  don't 
think,  anyway,  that  I  should  care  a  damn — I  mean 
as  far  as  I  'm  concerned — even  if  you  had  gone  as 
far  as  ever  you  liked,  considering  what  you  have 
to  put  up  with.  What  I  'm  thinking  of  is  the  general 
situation." 

By  this  clear  statement  of  his  point  of  view  Stephen 
felt  he  had  put  things  back  on  a  broad  basis,  and 
recovered  his  position  as  a  man  of  liberal  thought. 
He  too  leaned  over,  looking  at  the  ducks.  There 
was  a  silence.     Then  Hilary  said: 

**If  Bianca  won't  get  that  child  into  some  fresh 
place,  I  shall." 

Stephen  looked  at  his  brother  in  surprise,  amount- 
ing almost  to  dismay;  he  had  spoken  with  such 
unwonted  resolution. 

"My  dear  old  chap,"  he  said,  *'I  wotild  n't  go 
to  B.     Women  are  so  funny." 


158  Fraternity 

Hilary  smiled.  Stephen  took  this  for  a  sign  of 
restored  impersonality. 

"I'll  tell  you  exactly  how  the  thing  appeals  to 
me.  It  11  be  much  better  for  you  to  chuck  it 
altogether.     Let  Cis  see  to  it.'' 

Hilary's  eyes  became  bright  with  angry  humour. 

"Many  thanks,"  he  said,  **but  this  is  entirely  our 
affair." 

Stephen  answered  hastily:  • 

"That 's  exactly  what  makes  it  difl&cult  for  you 
to  look  at  it  all  round.  That  fellow  Hughs  could 
make  himself  quite  nasty.  I  would  n't  give  him 
any  sort  of  chance.  I  mean  to  say — ^giving  the 
girl  clothes  and  that  kind  of  thing " 

"I  see,"  said  Hilary. 

"You  know,  old  man,"  Stephen  went  on  hastily, 
"I  don't  think  you'll  get  Bianca  to  look  at  things 
in  your  light.  If  you  were  on — on  terms,  of  course 
it  would  be  different.  I  mean  the  girl,  you  know,  is 
rather  attractive  in  her  way." 

Hilary  roused  himself  from  contemplation  of  the 
ducks,  and  they  moved  on  towards  the  Powder 
Magazine.  Stephen  carefully  abstained  from  looking 
at  his  brother;  the  respect  he  had  for  Hilary — 
result,  perhaps,  of  the  latter's  seniority,  perhaps 
of  the  feeling  that  Hilary  knew  more  of  him  than 
he  of  Hilary — was  beginning  to  assert  itself  in  a 
way  he  did  not  like.  With  every  word,  too,  of  this 
talk,  the  ground,  instead  of  growing  firmer,  felt  less 
and  less  secure.    Hilary  spoke: 

"You  mistrust  my  powers  of  action?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Stephen.  "I  don't  want  you  to 
act  at  all.** 


Two  Brothers  159 

Hilary  laughed.  Hearing  that  rather  bitter  laugh, 
Stephen  felt  a  little  ache  about  his  heart. 

"Come,  old  boy,'!  he  said,  **we  can  trust  each 
other,  anyway." 

Hilary  gave  his  brother's  arm  a  squeeze. 

Moved  by  that  pressure,  Stephen  spoke: 

**I  hate  you  to  be  worried  over  such  a  rotten 
business.*' 

The  whizz  of  a  motor-car  rapidly  approaching 
them  became  a  sort  of  roar,  and  out  of  it  a  voice 
shouted:  **How  are  you?*'  A  hand  was  seen  to 
rise  in  salute.  It  was  Mr.  Purcey  driving  his  A.  i. 
Damyer  back  to  Wimbledon.  Before  him  in  the 
sunlight  a  little  shadow  fled;  behind  him  the  reek 
of  petrol  seemed  to  darken  the  road. 

"There  's  a  symbol  for  you,"  muttered  Hilary. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  Stephen  dryly.  The 
word  "symbol"  was  distasteful  to  him. 

"The  machine  in  the  middle  moving  on  its  business; 
shadows  like  you  and  me  skipping  in  front;  oil 
and  used-up  stuff  dropping  behind.  Society — 
body,  beak,  and  bones." 

Stephen  took  time  to  answer.  "  That 's  rather 
far-fetched,"  he  said.  "You  mean  these  Hughs  and 
people  are  the  droppings?  " 

"Quite  so,"  was  Hilary's  sardonic  answer. 
"There  's  the  body  of  that  fellow  and  his  car  between 
our  sort  and  them— and  no  getting  over  it,  Stevie." 

"Well,  who  wants  to?  If  you  're  thinking  of  our 
old  friend's  Fraternity,  I  'm  not  taking  any."  And 
Stephen  suddenly  added:  "Look  here,  I  believe 
this  affair  is  all  *  a  plant.'" 

"You  see  that  Powder  Magazine?"  said  Hilary. 


i6o  Fraternity 

''Well,  this  business  that  you  call  a  'plant'  is  more 
like  that.  I  don't  want  to  alarm  you,  but  I  think 
you,  as  well  as  our  young  friend  Martin,  are  inclined 
to  underrate  the  emotional  capacity  of  human 
nature.*' 

Disquietude  broke  up  the  customary  mask  on 
Stephen's  face.    "  I  don't  understand,"  he  stammered. 

"Well,  we  're  none  of  us  machines,  not  even 
amateurs  like  me — not  even  under-dogs  like  Hughs. 
I  fancy  you  may  find  a  certain  warmth,  not  to  say 
violence,  about  this  business.  I  tell  you  frankly 
that  I  don't  live  in  married  celibacy  quite  with 
impunity.  I  can't  answer  for  anything,  in  fact. 
You  had  better  stand  clear,  Stephen — that 's  all." 

Stephen  marked  his  thin  hands  quivering,  and 
this  alarmed  him  as  nothing  else  had  done. 

They  walked  on  beside  the  water.  Stephen  spoke 
quietly,  looking  at  the  ground.  "How  can  I  stand 
clear,  old  man,  if  you  are  going  to  get  into  a  mess? 
That 's  impossible/' 

He  saw  at  once  that  this  shot,  which  indeed  was 
from  his  heart,  had  gone  right  home  to  Hilary's. 
He  sought  within  him  how  to  deepen  the  impression. 

'*  You  mean  a  lot  to  us,"  he  said.  "  Cis  and  Thyme 
would  feel  it  awfully  if  you  and  B. "     He  stopped. 

Hilary  was  looking  at  him;  that  faintly  smiling 
glance,  searching  him  through  and  through,  suddenly 
made  Stephen  feel  inferior.  He  had  been  detected 
trying  to  extract  capital  from  the  effect  of  his  little 
piece  of  brotherly  love.  He  was  irritated  at  his 
brother's  insight. 

"I  have  no  right  to  give  advice,  I  suppose,"  he 
said;    "but  in  my  opinion  you  should  drop  it — 


Two  Brothers  i6i 

drop  it  dead.  The  girl  is  not  worth  your  looking 
after.  Turn  her  over  to  that  society — Mrs.  Tallents 
Smallpeace's  thing — whatever  it 's  called." 

At  a  sound  as  of  mirth  Stephen,  who  was  not 
accustomed  to  hear  his  brother  laugh,  looked  round. 

"Martin,"  said  Hilary,  "also  wants  the  case  to 
be  treated  on  strictly  hygienic  grounds.'! 

Nettled  by  this,  Stephen  answered: 

"Don't  confound  me  with  our  young  Sanitist, 
please ;  I  simply  think  there  are  probably  a  himdred 
things  you  don't  know  about  the  girl  which  ought 
to  be  cleared  up." 

"And  then?" 

"Then,"  said  Stephen,  "they  could— er— deal 
with  her  accordingly." 

Hilary  shrank  so  palpably  at  this  remark  that 
be  added  rather  hastily: 

"You  call  that  cold-blooded,  I  suppose;  but  I 
think,  you  know,  old  chap,  that  you  're  too  sen- 
sitive." 

Hilary  stopped  rather  abruptly. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  Stevie,"  he  said,  "we  H  part 
here.  I  want  to  think  it  over."  So  saying,  he  turned 
back,  and  sat  down  on  a  seat  that  faced  the  sun. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE  PERFECT  DOG        ^ 

HILARY  sat  long  in  the  sun,  watching  the  pale 
bright  waters  and  many  well-bred  ducks 
circling  about  the  shrubs,  searching  with  their 
round,  bright  eyes  for  worms.  Between  the 
bench  where  he  was  sitting  and  the  spiked  iron 
railings  people  passed  continually — ^men?  women, 
children  of  all  kinds.  Every  now  and  then  a  duck 
would  stop  and  cast  her  knowing  glance  at  these 
creatures,  as  though  comparing  the  condition  of 
their  forms  and  plumage  with  her  own.  **If  I  had 
had  the  breeding  of  you,*'  she  seemed  to  say,  "I 
could  have  made  a  better  fist  of  it  than  that.  A 
worse  looking  lot  of  ducks,  take  you  all  round,  I 
never  wish  to  see!"  And  with  a  quick  but  heavy 
movement  of  her  shoulders,  she  would  turn  away 
and  join  her  fellows. 

Hilary,  however,  got  small  distraction  from  the 
ducks.  The  situation  gradually  developing  was 
something  of  a  dilemma  to  a  man  better  acquainted 
with  ideas  than  facts,  with  the  trimming  of  words 
than  with  the  shaping  of  events.  He  ttirned  a  queer, 
perple.vcd,  almost  quizzical  eye  on  it.  Stephen  had 
irritated  him  profoundly.  He  had  such  a  way  of 
pettifying  things!  Yet,  in  truth,  the  affair  would 
seem  ridiculous  enough  to  an  ordinary  observer. 
What  would  a  man  »of  sound  common  sense,  like 


The  Perfect  Dog  163 

Mr.  Purcey,  think  of  it?  Why  not,  as  Stephen 
had  suggested,  drop  it?  Here,  however,  Hilary 
approached  the  marshy  ground  of  feeling. 

To  give  up  befriending  a  helpless  girl  the  moment 
he  found  himself  personally  menaced  was  exceedingly 
distasteful.  But  'would  she  be  friendless?  Were 
there  not,  in  Stephen's  words,  a  hundred  things  he 
did  not  know  about  her?  Had  she  not  other  re- 
sources? Had  she  not  a  story?  But  here,  too,  he 
Was  hampered  by  his  delicacy:  One  did  not  pry 
into  the  private  lives  of  others! 

The  matter,  too,  was  hopelessly  complicated  by 
the  domestic  troubles  of  the  Hughs  family.  No 
conscientious  man — and  whatever  Hilary  lacked, 
no  one  ever  accused  him  of  a  lack  of  conscience — • 
could  put  aside  that  aspect  of  the  case. 

Wandering  among  these  reflections  were  his  thoughts 
about  Bianca.  She  was  his  wife.  However  he 
might  feel  towards  her  now,  whatever  their  relations, 
he  must  not  put  her  in  a  false  position.  Far  from 
wishing  to  hurt  her,  he  desired  to  preserve  her,  and 
everyone,  from  trouble  and  annoyance.  He  had 
told  Stephen  that  his  interest  in  the  girl  was  purely 
protective.  But  since  the  night  when,  leaning  out 
into  the  moonlight,  he  heard  the  waggons  coming 
into  Covent  Garden  Market,  a  strange  feeling  had 
possessed  him — ^the  sensation  of  a  man  who  lies, 
with  a  touch  of  fever  on  him,  listening  to  the  thrum 
of  distant  music — ^sensuoas,  not  unpleasurable. 

Those  who  saw  him  sitting  there  so  quietly,  with 
his  face  resting  on  his  hand,  imagined,  no  doubt, 
that  he  was  wrestling  with  some  deep,  abstract 
proposition,    some    great    thought   to    be    given   to 


1 64  Fraternity 


mankind;  for  there  was  that  about  Hilary  which 
forced  everyone  to  connect  him  instantly  with  the 
htmianer  arts. 

The  sun  began  to  leave  the  long  pale  waters. 

A  nursemaid  and  two  children  came  and  sat  down 
beside  him.  Then  it  was  that,  underneath  his  seat 
Miranda  found  what  she  had  been  looking  for  all 
her  life.  It  had  no  smell,  made  no  movement,  was 
pale-grey  in  colour,  like  herself.  It  had  no  hair 
that  she  could  find;  its  tail  was  like  her  own;  it 
took  no  liberties,  was  silent,  had  no  passions,  com- 
mitted her  to  nothing.  Standing  a  few  inches  from 
its  head,  closer  than  she  had  ever  been  of  her  free 
will  to  any  dog,  she  smelt  its  smell-lessness  with  a 
long,  delicious  snuffling,  wrinkling  up  the  skin  on 
her  forehead,  and  through  her  upturned  eyes  her 
little  moonlight  soul  looked  forth,  **How  unlike 
you  are,**  she  seemed  to  say,  **to  all  the  other  dogs 
I  know!  I  would  love  to  live  with  you.  Shall  I 
ever  find  a  dog  like  you  again?  *The  latest — 
sterilised  wool — see  white  label  underneath:  45.  3d.**' 
Suddenly  she  slithered  out  her  slender  grey-pink 
tongue  and  licked  its  nose.  The  creature  moved 
a  little  way  and  stopped.  Miranda  saw  that  it  had 
wheels.  She  lay  down  close  to  it,  for  she  knew  it 
was  the  perfect  dog. 

Hilary  watched  the  little  moonlight  lady  lying 
vigilant,  affectionate,  beside  this  perfect  dog,  who 
could  not  hurt  her.  She  panted  slightly,  and  her 
tongue  showed  between  her  lips. 

Presently  behind  his  seat  he  saw  another  idyll. 
A  thin  white  spaniel  had  come  running  up.  She 
lay  down  in  the  grass  quite  close,  and  three  other 


The  Perfect  Dog  165 

dogs  who  followed  sat  and  looked  at  her.  A  poor, 
dirty  little  thing  she  was,  who  seemed  as  if  she  had 
not  seen  a  home  for  days.  Her  tongue  lolled  out, 
she  panted  piteously,  and  had  no  collar.  Every 
now  and  then  she  turned  her  eyes,  but  though  they 
were  so  tired  and  desperate,  there  was  a  gleam  in 
them.  **  For  all  its  thirst  and  hunger  and  exhaustion, 
this  is  life!"  they  seemed  to  say.  The  three  dogs, 
panting  too,  and  watching  till  it  should  be  her  pleasure 
to  begin  to  run  again,  seemed  with  their  moist, 
loving  eyes  to  echo:  **This  is  life!*' 

Because  of  this  idyll,  people  near  were  moving  on. 

And  suddenly  the  thin  white  spaniel .  rose,  and, 
like  a  little  harried  ghost,  slipped  on  amongst  the 
trees,  and  the  three  dogs  followed  her. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BIANCA 

IN  her  studio  that  afternoon  Bianca  stood  before 
her  picture  of  the  little  model — ^the  figure  with 
parted  pale-red  lips  and  haunting,  pale-blue  eyes, 
gazing  out  of  shadow  into  lamplight. 

She  was  frowning,  as  though  resentful  of  a  piece 
of  work  which  had  the  power  to  kill  her  other  pictures. 
What  force  had  moved  her  to  pain  like  that?  What 
had  she  felt  while  the  girl  was  standing  before  her, 
still  as  some  pale  flower  placed  in  a  cup  of  water? 
Not  love — ^there  was  no  love  in  the  presentment  of 
that  twilight  figure;  not  hate — ^there  was  no  hate  in 
the  painting  of  her  dim  appeal.  Yet  in  the  picture 
of  this  shadow  girl,  between  the  gloom  and  glimmer, 
was  visible  a  spirit,  driving  the  artist  on  to  create 
that  which  had  the  power  to  haunt  the  mind. 

Bianca  turned  away  and  went  up  to  a  portrait 
of  her  husband,  painted  ten  years  before.  She  looked 
from  one  picture  to  the  other,  with  eyes  as  hard  and 
stabbing  as  the  point  of  daggers. 

In  the  more  poignant  relationships  of  human  life 
there  is  a  point  beyond  which  men  and  women  do 
not  quite  truthfully  analyse  their  feelings — ^they 
feel  too  much.  It  was  Bianca*s  fortune,  too,  to  be 
endowed  to  excess  with  that  quality  which,  of  all 
others,  most  obscures  the  real  significance  of  human 

issues.     Her  pride  had  kept  her  back  from  Hilary,  till 

..  -  l66 


Bianca  167 

she  had  felt  herself  a  failure.  Her  pride  had  so  revolted 
at  that  failure  that  she  had  led  the  way  to  utter 
estrangement.  Her  pride  had  forced  her  to  the 
attitude  of  one  who  says:  **Live  your  own  life;  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  let  you  see  that  I  care  what 
happens  between  us."  Her  pride  had  concealed 
from  her  the  fact  that  beneath  her  veil  of  mocking 
liberality  there  was  an  essential  woman  tenacious 
of  her  dues,  avid  of  affection  and  esteem.  Her  pride 
prevented  the  world  from  guessing  that  there  was 
anything  amiss.  Her  pride  even  prevented  Hilary 
from  really  knowing  what  had  spoiled  his  married 
life — ^this  ungovernable  itch  to  be  appreciated,  gov- 
erned by  ungovernable  pride.  Hundreds  of  times 
he  had  been  baffled  by  the  hedge  round  that  dis- 
harmonic  nature.  With  each  failure  something  had 
shrivelled  in  him,  till  the  very  roots  of  his  affection 
had  dried  up.  She  had  worn  out  a  man  who,  to 
judge  from  his  actions  and  appearance,  was  naturally 
long-suffering  to  a  fault.  Beneath  all  manner  of 
kindness  and  consideration  for  each  other — ^for 
their  good  taste,  at  all  events,  had  never  given  way — 
this  tragedy  of  a  woman,  who  wanted  to  be  loved, 
slowly  killing  the  power  of  loving  her  in  the  man, 
had  gone  on  year  after  year.  It  had  ceased  to  be 
tragedy,  as  far  as  Hilary  was  concerned;  the  nerve 
of  his  love  for  her  was  quite  dead,  slowly  frozen  out 
of  him.  It  was  still  active  tragedy  with  Bianca, 
the  nerve  of  whose  jealous  desire  for  his  appreciation 
was  not  dead.  Her  instinct,  too,  ironically  informed 
her  that,  had  he  been  a  man  with  some  brutality,  a 
man  who  had  set  himself  to  ride  and  master  her, 
instead  of  one  too  delicate,  he  might  have  trampled 


i68  Fraternity 

down  the  hedge.  This  gave  her  a  secret  grudge 
against  him,  a  feeling  that  it  was  not  she  who  was  to 
blame. 

Pride  was  Bianca's  fate,  her  flavour,  and  her 
charm.  Like  a  shadowy  hillside  behind  glamorous 
bars  of  waning  sunlight,  she  was  enveloped  in  smiling 
pride — mysterious,  one  thinks,  even  to  herself.  This 
pride  of  hers  took  part  even  in  her  many  generous 
impulses,  kind  actions  which  she  did  rather  secretly 
and  scoffed  at  herself  for  doing.  She  scoffed  at 
herself  continually,  even  for  putting  on  dresses  of 
colours  which  Hilary  was  fond  of.  She  would  not 
admit  her  longing  to  attract  him. 

Standing  between  those  two  pictures,  pressing  her 
mahl-stick  against  her  bosom,  she  suggested  some- 
what the  image  of  an  Italian  saint  forcing  the  dagger 
of  martyrdom  into  her  heart. 

That  other  person  who  had  once  brought  the 
thought  of  Italy  into  Cecilia's  mind — ^the  man 
Hughs — ^had  been  for  the  last  eight  hours  or  so  walking 
the  streets,  placing  in-  a  cart  the  refuses  of  Life; 
nor  had  he  at  all  suggested  the  aspect  of  one  tortured 
by  the  passions  of  love  and  hate.  For  the  first  two 
hours  he  had  led  the  horse  without  expression  of  any 
sort  on  his  dark  face,  his  neat  soldier's  figure  garbed 
in  the  costume  which  had  made  ** Westminister" 
describe  him  as  a  ** dreadful  foreign-lookin'  man." 
Now  and  then  he  had  spoken  to  the  horse;  save 
for  those  speeches,  of  no  great  importance,  he  had 
been  silent.  For  the  next  two  hours,  following  the 
cart,  he  had  used  a  shovel,  and  still  his  square,  short 
face,  with  little  black  moustache  and  still  blacker 
eyes,  had  given  no  sign  of  conflict  in  his  breast.     So 


Bianca  169 

he  had  passed  the  day.  Apart  from  the  fact,  indeed, 
that  men  of  any  kind  are  not  too  given  to  expose 
private  passions  to  public  gaze,  the  circumstances 
of  a  life  devoted  from  the  age  of  twenty  onwards 
to  the  service  of  his  country,  first  as  a  soldier,  now 
in  the  more  defensive  part  of  Vestry  scavenger, 
had  given  him  a  kind  of  gravity.  Life  had  cloaked 
him  with  passivity — ^the  normal  look  of  men  whose 
bread  and  cheese  depends  on  their  not  caring  much 
for  anything.  Had  Hughs  allowed  his  inclinations 
play,  or  sought  to  express  himself,  he  could  hardly 
have  been  a  private  soldier;  still  less,  on  his  retire- 
ment from  that  office  with  an  honourable  wound, 
would  he  have  been  selected  out  of  many  others  as 
a  Vestry  scavenger.  For  such  an  occupation  as  the 
lifting  from  the  streets  of  the  refuses  of  life — a,  calling 
greatly  sought  after,  and,  indeed,  one  of  the  few 
open  to  a  man  who  had  served  his  country — charm 
of  manner,  individuality,  or  the  engaging  quality  of 
self-expression  were  perhaps  out  of  place. 

He  had  never  been  trained  in  the  voicing  of  his 
thoughts,  and  ever  since  he  had  been  wounded  felt 
at  times  a  kind  of  desperate  looseness  in  his  head. 
It  was  not,  therefore,  remarkable  that  he  should  be 
liable  to  misconstruction,  more  especially  by  those 
who  had  nothing  in  common  with  him,  except  that 
somewhat  negligible  factor,  common  humanity.  The 
Dallisons  had  misconstrued  him  as  much  as,  but 
no  more  than,  he  had  misconstrued  them  when, 
as  ** Westminister"  had  informed  Hilary,  he  **went 
on  against  the  gentry.**  He  was,  in  fact,  a  ragged 
screen,  a  broken  vessel,  that  let  light  through  its 
holes.     A  glass  or  two  of  beer,  the  fumes  of  which 


i7o  Fraternity 

his  wounded  head  no  longer  dominated,  and  he  at 
once  became  ** dreadful  foreign."  Unfortunately  it 
was  his  custom,  on  finishing  his  work,  to  call  at  the 
"Green  Glory.**  On  this  particular  afternoon  the 
glass  had  become  three,  and  in  sallying  forth  he  had 
felt  a  confused  sense  of  duty  urging  him  to  visit  the 
house  where  this  girl  for  whom  he  had  conceived  his 
strange  infatuation  ** carried  on  her  games.'*  The 
** no-tale-bearing"  tradition  of  a  soldier  fought  hard 
with  this  sense  of  duty ;  his  feelings  were  mixed  as 
he  rang  the  bell  and  asked  for  Mrs.  Dallison.  Habit, 
however,  masked  his  face,  and  he  stood  before  her 
at  "attention,"  his  black  eyes  lowered,  clutching 
his  peaked  cap. 

Bianca  noted  curiously  the  scar  on  the  left  side  of 
his  cropped  black  head. 

Whatever  Hughs  had  to  say  was  not  said  easily. 

I  *ve  come,"  he  began  at  last  in  a  dogged  voice, 
to  let  you  know.     I  never  wanted  to  come  into  this 
house.    I  never  wanted  to  see  no  one." 

Bianca  could  see  his  lips  and  eyelids  quivering  in 
a  way  strangely  out  of  keeping  with  his  general 
stolidity. 

"My  wife  has  told  you  tales  of  me,  I  suppose. 
She  's  told  you  I  knock  her  about,  I  dare  say.  I 
don't  care  what  she  tells  you  or  any  o'  the  people 
that  she  works  for.  But  this  I  '11  say :  I  never  touched 
her  but  she  touched  me  first.  Look  here!  that's 
marks  of  hers!"  and,  drawing  up  his  sleeve,  he  showed 
a  scratch  on  his  sinewy  tattooed  forearm.  "I  've 
not  come  here  about  her;  that's  no  business  of 
anyone's." 

Bianca   turned   towards   her   pictures.      "Well?" 


Bianca  171 

she  said,  "but  what  have  you  come  about,  please? 
You  see  I  'm  busy." 

Hughs*s  face  changed.  Its  stolidity  vanished,  the 
eyes  became  as  quick,  passionate,  and  leaping  as  a 
dark  torrent.  He  was  more  violently  alive  than 
she  had  ever  seen  a  man.  Had  it  been  a  woman  she 
would  have  felt — ^as  Cecilia  had  felt  with  Mrs.  Hughs — 
the  indecency,  the  impudence  of  this  exhibition; 
but  from  that  male  violence  the  feminine  in  her 
derived  a  certain  satisfaction.  So  in  Spring,  when 
all  seems  lowering  and  grey,  the  hedges  and  trees 
suddenly  flare  out  against  the  purple  clouds,  their 
twigs  all  in  flame.  The  next  moment  that  white 
glare  is  gone,  the  clouds  are  no  longer  purple,  fiery 
light  no  longer  quivers  and  leaps  along  the  hedgerows. 
The  passion  in  Hughs*s  face  was  gone  as  soon.  Bianca 
felt  a  sense  of  disappointment,  as  though  she  could 
have  wished  her  life  held  a  little  more  of  that.  He 
stole  a  glance  at  her  out  of  his  dark  eyes,  which, 
when  narrowed,  had  a  velvety  look,  like  the  body  of 
a  wild  bee,  then  jerked  his  thumb  at  the  picture  of 
the  little  model. 

'*It  *s  about  her  I  come  to  speak." 

Bianca  faced  him  frigidly. 

**  I  have  not  the  slightest  .wish  to  hear." 

Hughs  looked  round,  as  though  to  find  something 
that  would  help  him  to  proceed;  his  eyes  lighted 
on  Hilary's  portrait. 

*  *  Ah !  I  *d  put  the  two  together  if  I  was  you,"  he  said. 

Bianca  walked  past  him  to  the  door. 

**  Either  you  or  I  must  leave  the  room." 

The  man's  face  was  neither  sullen  now  nor  pas- 
sionate, but  simply  miserable. 


172  Fraternity 

**Look  here,  lady,"  he  said,  *' don't  take  it  hard  o* 
me  coming  here.  I  'm  not  out  to  do  you  a  harm. 
I  *ve  got  a  wife  of  my  own,  and  Gawd  knows  I  *ve 
enough  to  put  up  with  from  her  about  this  girl.  I  *11 
be  going  in  the  water  one  of  these  days.  It 's  him 
giving  her  them  clothes  that  set  me  coming  here." 

Bianca  opened  the  door.     **  Please  go,"  she  said. 

**I  *11  go  quiet  enough,"  he  muttered,  and,  hanging 
his  head,  walked  out. 

Having  seen  him  through  the  side  door  out  into 
the  street,  Bianca  went  back  to  where  she  had  been 
standing  before  he  came.  She  found  some  difficulty 
in  swallowing;  for  once  there  was  no  armour  on 
her  face.  She  stood  there  a  long  time  without  moving, 
then  put  the  pictures  back  into  their  places  and 
went  down  the  little  passage  to  the  house.  Listening 
outside  her  father's  door,  she  turned  the  handle 
quietly  and  went  in. 

Mr.  Stone,  holding  some  sheets  of  paper  out  before 
him,  was  dictating  to  the  little  model,  who  was 
writing  laboriously  with  her  face  close  above  her 
arm.  She  stopped  at  Bianca's  entrance.  Mr.  Stone 
did  not  stop,  but,  holding  up  his  other  hand,  said: 

*'I  will  take  you  through  the  last  three  pages 
again.     Follow!"  ^ 

Bianca  sat  down  at  the  window. 

Her  father's  voice,  so  thin  and  slow,  with  each 
syllable  disjointed  from  the  other,  rose  like  monotony 
itself. 

*** There  were  tra-cea-able  indeed,  in  those  days, 
certain  rudi  -  men  -  tary  at-tempts  to  f-u-s-e  the 
classes   .    .    .'" 

It  went  on  unwavering,   neither  rising  high   nor 


Bianca  173 

falling  low,  as  though  the  reader  knew  he  had  yet 
far  to  go,  like  a  runner  that  brings  great  news  across 
mountains,  plains,  and  rivers. 

To  Bianca  that  thin  voice  might  have  been  the 
customary  sighing  of  the  wind,  her  attention  was 
so  fast  fixed  on  the  girl,  who  sat  following  the  words 
down  the  pages  with  her  pen*s  point. 

Mr.  Stone  paused. 

**Have  you  got  the  word  *  insane'?"  he  asked. 

The  little  model  raised  her  face.    **  Yes,  Mr.  Stone." 

**Strikeitout." 

With  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  trees  he  stood  breathing 
audibly.  The  little  model  moved  her  fingers,  freeing 
them  from  cramp.  Bianca*s  curious,  smiling  scrutiny 
never  left  her,  as  though  trying  to  fix  an  indelible 
image  on  her  mind.  There  was  something  terrify- 
ing in  that  stare,  cruel  to  herself,  cruel  to  the 
girl. 

**The  precise  word,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  ** eludes  me. 
Leave  a  blank.  Follow!  .  .  .  *  Neither  that  sweet 
fraternal  interest  of  man  in  man,  nor  a  curiosity  in 
phenomena  merely  as  phenomena.  .  .  . ' "  His 
voice  pursued  its  tenuous  path  through  spaces, 
frozen  by  the  calm  etgrnal  presence  of  his  beloved 
idea,  which,  like  a  golden  moon,  far  and  cold,  presided 
glamorously '  above  the  thin  track  of  words.  And 
still  the  girl's  pen-point  traced  his  utterance  across 
the  pages.  Mr.  Stone  paused  again,  and  looking 
at  his  daughter  as  though  surprised  to  see  her  sitting 
there,  asked: 

**Do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me,  my  dear?" 

Bianca  shook  her  head. 

"Follow!"  said  Mr.  Stone. 


174  Fraternity 


But  the  little  moders  glance  had  stolen  round  to 
meet  the  scrutiny  fixed  on  her. 

A  look  passed  across  her  face  which  seemed  to 
say:  **What  have  I  done  to  you,  that  you  should 
stare  at  me  like  this? " 

Furtive  and  fascinated,  her  eyes  remained  fixed 
on  Bianca,  while  her  hand  moved,  mechanically 
ticking  the  paragraphs.  That  silent  duel  of  eyes 
went  on — ^the  woman's  fixed,  cruel,  smiling;  the 
girl's  uncertain,  resentful.  Neither  of  them  heard 
a  word  that  Mr.  Stone  was  reading.  They  treated 
it  as,  from  the  beginning,  Life  has  treated  Philosophy 
— and  to  the  end  will  treat  it. 

Mr.  Stone  paused  again,  seeming  to  weigh  his  last 
sentences. 

"That  I  think,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  **is 
true."  And  suddenly  he  addressed  his  daughter. 
**Do  you  agree  with  me  my  dear?" 

He  was  evidently  waiting  with  anxiety  for  her 
answer,  and  the  little  silver  hairs  that  straggled  on 
his  lean  throat  beneath  his  beard  were  clearly  visible. 

**Yes,  Father,  I  agree." 

'*  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  **I  am  glad  that  you  confirm 
me.     I  was  anxious.     Follow!" 

Bianca  rose.  Burning  spots  of  colour  had  settled 
in  her  cheeks.  She  went  towards  the  door,  and  the 
little  model  pursued  her  figure  with  a  long  look, 
cringing,  mutinous,  and  wistful. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THB  HUSBAND  AND  THE  WIFE 

IT  was  past  six  o'clock  when  Hilary  at  length 
reached  home,  preceded  a  little  by  Miranda,  who 
almost  felt  within  her  the  desire  to  eat.  The  lilac 
bushes,  not  yet  in  flower,  were  giving  forth  spicy 
fragrance.  The  sun  still  netted  their  top  boughs,  as 
with  golden  silk,  and  a  blackbird,  seated  on  a  low 
branch  of  the  acacia-tree,  was  summoning  the  evening. 
Mr.  Stone,  accompanied  by  the  little  model,  dressed 
in  her  new  clothes,  was  coming  down  the  path.  They 
were  evidently  going  for  a  walk,  for  Mr.  Stone  wore 
his  hat,  old  and  soft  and  black,  with  a  strong  green 
tinge,  and  carried  a  paper  parcel,  which  leaked  crumbs 
of  bread  at  every  step. 

The  girl  grew  very  red.  She  held  her  head  down, 
as  though  afraid  of  Hilary's  inspection  of  her  new 
clothes.  At  the  gate  she  suddenly  looked  up.  His 
face  said:  **Yes,  you  look  very  nice!"  And  into  her 
eyes  a  look  leaped  such  as  one  may  see  in  dogs*  eyes 
lifted  in  adoration  to  their  master's  faces.  Mani- 
festly disconcerted,  Hilary  turned  to  Mr.  Stone.  The 
old  man  was  standing  very  still;  a  thought  had 
evidently  struck  him. 

**I  have  not,  I  think,"  he  said,  **given  enough  con- 
sideration to  the  question  whether  force  is  absolutely, 
or  only  relatively,  evil.  If  I  saw  a  man  ill-treat  a 
cat,  should  I  be  justified  in  striking  him?" 

175 


1 76  Fraternity 

Accustomed  to  such  divagations,  Hilary  answered: 
**I  don't  know  whether  you  would  be  justified,  but  I 
believe  that  you  would  strike  him." 

"I  am  not  sure,**  said  Mr.  Stone.  "We  are  going 
to  feed  the  birds.*' 

The  little  model  took  the  paper  bag.  **It's  all 
dropping  out,**  she  said.  From  across  the  road  she 
turned  her  head.  **Won*t  you  come,  too?'*  she 
seemed  to  say. 

But  Hilary  passed  rather  hastily  into  the  garden 
and  shut  the  gate  behind  him.  He  sat  in  his  study, 
with  Miranda  near  him,  for  fully  an  hour,  without 
doing  anything  whatever,  sunk  in  a  strange  half- 
pleasurable  torpor.  At  this  hour  he  should  have  been 
working  at  his  book;  and  the  fact  that  his  idleness 
did  not  trouble  him  might  well  have  given  him  un- 
easiness. Many  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind, 
imaginings  of  things  he  had  thought  left  behind  for 
ever — sensations  and  longings  which  to  the  normal 
eye  of  middle-age  are  but  dried  forms  hung  in  the 
museum  of  memory.  They  started  up  at  the  whip  of 
the  still-living  youth,  the  lost  wildness  at  the  heart 
of  every  man.  Like  the  reviving  flame  of  half- 
spent  fires,  longing  for  discovery  leaped  and  flickered 
in  Hilary — ^to  find  out  once  again  what  things  were 
like  before  he  went  down  the  hill  of  age. 

No  trivial  ghost  was  beckoning  him;  it  v/as  the 
ghost,  with  unseen  face  and  rosy  finger,  that  comes 
to  men  whose  youth  has  gone. 

Miranda,  hearing  him  so  silent,  rose.  At  this  hour 
it  was  her  master's  habit  to  scratch  paper.  She,  who 
seldom  scratched  anything,  because  it  was  not  delicate, 
felt  dimly  that  this  was  what  he  should  be  doing. 


The  Husband  and  the  Wife       177 

She  held  up  a  slim  foot  and  touched  his  knee.  Re- 
ceiving no  discouragement,  she  delicately  sprang  into 
his  lap,  and,  forgetting  for  once  her  modesty,  placed 
her  arms  on  his  chest,  and  licked  his  face  all  over. 

It  was  while  receiving  this  embrace  that  Hilary 
saw  Mr.  Stone  and  the  little  model  returning  across 
the  garden.  The  old  man  was  walking  very  rapidly, 
holding  out  the  fragment  of  a  broken  stick.  He  was 
extremely  pink. 

Hilary  went  to  meet  them. 

**What  's  the  matter,  sir?''  he  said. 

*'I  cut  him  over  the  legs,''  said  Mr.  Stone.  **I  do 
not  regret  it " ;  and  he  walked  on  to  his  room. 

Hilary  turned  to  the  little  model. 

**It  was  a  little  dog.  The  man  kicked  it,  and  Mr. 
Stone  hit  him.  He  broke  his  stick.  There  were 
several  men;  they  threatened  us."  She  looked  up  at 
Hilary.  *'I — ^I  was  frightened.  Oh!  Mr.  Dallison, 
is  n't  he — funny?" 

**  All  heroes  are  funny,"  murmured  Hilary. 

**He  wanted  to  hit  them  again,  after  his  stick  was 
broken.  Then  a  policeman  came,  and  they  all  ran 
away." 

**  That  was  quite  as  it  should  be,"  said  Hilary.  **  And 
what  did  you  do?" 

Perceiving  that  she  had  not  as  yet  made  much 
effect,  the  little  model  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"I  should  n't  have  been  frightened  if  you  had  been 
there!" 

"Heavens!"  muttered  Hilary.  "Mr.  Stone  is  far 
more  valiant  than  I." 

"I  don't  think  he  is,"  she  replied  stubbornly,  and 
again  looked  up  at  him. 


178  Fraternity 

"Well,  good-night!"  said  Hilary  hastily.  *'You 
must  run  off.  .  .  .  '* 

That  same  evening,  driving  with  his  wife  back  from 
a  long  dull  dinner,  Hilary  began: 

"I  've  something  to  say  to  you." 

An  ironic  '*Yes?"  came  from  the  other  corner  of 
the  cab. 

**  There  is  some  trouble  with  the  little  model." 

"Really!" 

"This  man  Hughs  has  become  infatuated  with  her. 
He  has  even  said,  I  believe,  that  he  was  coming  to 
see  you." 

"What  about?" 

"Me." 
And  what  is  he  going  to  say  about  you? " 
I  don't  know;  some  vulgar  gossip — ^nothing  true." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  in  the  darkness  Hilary 
moistened  his  dry  lips. 

Bianca  spoke:  "May  I  ask  how  you  knew  of  this?" 

"Cecilia  told  me." 

A  curious  noise,  like  a  little  strangled  laugh,  fell  on 
Hilary's  ears. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  muttered. 

Presently  Bianca  said: 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  tell  me,  considering  that  we 
go  our  own  ways.     What  made  you?" 

"I  thought  it  right." 

"And — of  course,  the  man  might  have  come  to 
me!" 

''That  you  need  not  have  said." 

"One  does  not  always  say  what  one  ought." 

**I  have  made  the  child  a  present  of  some  clothes 


The  Husband  and  the  Wife      179 

which  she  badly  needed.  As  far  as  I  know,  that  *s 
all  I  Ve  done!" 

"Of  course!" 

This  wonderful  "of  course'!  acted  on  Hilary  like  a 
tonic.     He  said  dryly: 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?*' 

" I  ? **  No  gust  of  the  east  wind,  making  the  yotmg 
leaves  curl  and  shiver,  the  gas  jets  flare  and  die  down 
in  their  lamps,  could  so  have  nipped  the  flower  of 
amity.  Through  Hilary's  mind  flashed  Stephen's 
almost  imploring  words:  "Oh,  I  would  n't  go  to  her! 
Women  are  so  funny ! ' ' 

He  looked  round.  A  blue  gauze  scarf  was  wrapped 
over  his  wife's  dark  head.  There,  in  her  corner,  as 
far  away  from  him  as  she  could  get,  she  was  smiling. 
For  a  moment  Hilary  had  the  sensation  of  being  stifled 
by  fold  on  fold  of  that  blue  gauze  scarf,  as  if  he 
were  doomed  to  drive  for  ever,  suffocated,  by  the  side 
of  this  woman  who  had  killed  his  love  for  her. 

"You  will  do  what  you  like,  of  course,"  she  said 
suddenly. 

A  desire  to  laugh  seized  Hilary.  "  What  do  you  wish 
me  to  do?"  "You  will  do  what  you  like,  of  course!" 
Could  civilised  restraint  and  tolerance  go  further? 

"B.,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  "the  wife  is  jealous. 
We  put  the  girl  into  that  house — we  ought  to  get  her 
out." 

Bianca's  reply  came  slowly. 

"From  the  first,"  she  said,  "the  girl  has  been  your 
property;  do  what  you  like  with  her.  I  shall  not 
meddle  !" 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  regarding  people  as  my 
property." 


i8o  Fraternity 

*'  No  need  to  tell  me  that — I  have  known  you  twenty 
years/' 

Doors  sometimes  slam  in  the  minds  of  the  mildest  j 
and  most  restrained  of  men. 

"Oh,  very  well!  I  have  told  you;  you  can  see 
Hughs  when  he  comes — or  not,  as  you  like." 

"I  have  seen  him.*' 

Hilary  smiled. 

"Well,  was  his  story  very  terrible?" 

"He  told  me  no  story." 

"How  was  that?" 

Bianca  suddenly  sat  forward,  and  threw  back  the 
blue  scarf,  as  though  she,  too,  were  stifling.  In  her 
flushed  face  her  eyes  were  bright  as  stars;  her  lips 
quivered. 

"Is  it  likely,"  she  said,  "that  I  should  listen? 
That 's  enough,  please,  of  these  people." 

Hilary  bowed.  The  cab,  bearing  them  fast  home, 
turned  into  the  last  short  cut.  This  narrow  street  was 
full  of  men  and  women  circling  round  barrows  and 
lighted  booths.  The  sound  of  coarse  talk  and  laugh- 
ter floated  out  into  air  thick  with  the  reek  of  paraffin 
and  the  scent  of  frying  fish.  In  every  couple  of  those 
men  and  woman  Hilary  seemed  to  see  the  Hughs,  that 
other  married  couple,  going  home  to  wedded  happi- 
ness above  the  little  model's  head.  The  cab  turned 
out  of  the  gay  alley. 

"Enough,  please,  of  these  people!" 

That  same  night,  past  one  o'clock,  he  was  roused 
from  sleep  by  hearing  bolts  drawn  back.  He  got 
up,  hastened  to  the  window,  and  looked  out.  At 
first  he  could  distinguish  nothing.  The  moonless 
night,  like  a  dark  bird,  had  nested  in  the  garden; 


The  Husband  and  the  Wife       i8i 

the  sighing  of  the  lilac  bushes  was  the  only  sound. 
Then,  dimly,  just  below  him,  on  the  steps  of  the 
front  door,  he  saw  a  figure  standing. 

**Who  is  that?'*  he  called. 

The  figure  did  not  move. 

"Who  are  you?"  said  Hilary  again. 

The  figure  raised  its  face,  and  by  the  gleam  of 
his  white  beard  Hilary  knew  that  it  was  Mr.  Stone. 

'*  What  is  it,  sir  ? ' '  he  said.     "  Can  I  do  anything  ? ' ' 

**No,"  answered  Mr.  Stone.  "I  am  listening  to 
the  wind.  It  has  visited  everyone  to-night."  And 
lifting   his  hand,  he  pointed  out  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  DAY  OP  REST 

CECILIA'S  house  in  the  Old  Square  was  steeped 
from  roof  to  basement  in  the  peculiar  atmos- 
phere brought  by  Sunday  to  houses  whose  inmates 
have  no  need  of  religion  or  of  rest. 

Neither  she  nor  Stephen  had  been  to  church  since 
Thyme  was  christened;  they  did  not  expect  to  go 
again  till  she  was  married,  and  they  felt  that  even 
to  go  on  these  occasions  was  against  their  principles ; 
but  for  the  sake  of  other  people's  feelings  they  had 
made  the  sacrifice,  and  they  meant  to  make  it  once 
more  when  the  time  came.  Each  Sunday,  therefore, 
everything  tried  to  happen  exactly  as  it  happened  on 
every  other  day,  with  indifferent  success.  This  was 
because,  for  all  Cecilia's  resolutions,  a  joint  of  beef 
and  Yorkshire  pudding  would  appear  on  the  luncheon 
table,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Mr.  Stone — who 
came  when  he  remembered  that  it  was  Sunday — 
did  not  devour  the  higher  mammals.  Every  week, 
when  it  appeared,  Cecilia,  who  for  some  reason 
carved  on  Sundays,  regarded  it  with  a  frown.  Next 
week  she  would  really  discontinue  it;  but  when  next 
week  came,  there  it  was,  with  its  complexion  that 
reminded  her  so  uncomfortably  of  cabmen.  And 
she  would  partake  of  it  with  unexpected  heartiness. 
Something  very  old  and  deep,  some  horrible  whole- 
hearted appetite,  derived,  no  doubt,  from  Mr.  Justice 

1S2 


A  Day  of  Rest  183 

Carfax,  rose  at  that  hour  precisely  every  week  to 
master  her.  Having  given  Thyme  the  second 
helping  which  she  invariably  took,  Cecilia,  who 
detested  carving,  would  look  over  the  fearful  joint 
at  a  piece  of  glass  procured  by  her  in  Venice,  and  at 
the  daffodils  standing  upright  in  it,  apparently 
without  support.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  piece  of 
beef,  which  had  made  itself  smelt  all  the  morning,  and 
would  make  itself  felt  all  the  afternoon,  it  need  never 
have  come  into  her  mind  at  all  that  it  was  Sunday — 
and  she  would  cut  herself  another  slice. 

To  have  told  Cecilia  that  there  was  still  a  strain  of 
the  Puritan  in  her  would  have  been  to  occasion  her 
some  uneasiness,  and  provoked  a  strenuous  denial; 
yet  her  way  of  observing  Sunday  furnished  indubitable 
evidence  of  this  peculiar  fact.  She  did  more  that 
day  than  any  other.  For,  in  the  morning  she  in- 
variably ** cleared  off"  her  correspondence;  at  lunch 
she  carved  the  beef;  after  lunch  she  cleared  ofiE  the 
novel  or  book  on  social  questions  she  was  reading; 
went  to  a  concert,  clearing  off  a  call  on  the  way 
back;  and  on  first  Sundays — a  great  bore — stayed  at 
home  to  clear  off  the  friends  who  came  to  visit  her. 
In  the  evening  she  went  to  some  play  or  other,  pro- 
duced by  Societies  for  the  benefit  of  persons  compelled, 
like  her,  to  keep  a  Sunday  with  which  they  felt  no 
sympathy. 

On  this  particular  "first  Sunday,"  having  made  the 
circuit  of  her  drawing-room,  which  extended  the 
whole  breadth  of  her  house,  and  through  long,  low 
windows  cut  into  leaded  panes  looked  out  both  back 
and  front,  she  took  up  Mr.  Balladyce's  latest  book. 
She  sat,   with  her  paper-knife  pressed  against  the 


1 84  Fraternity 

tiny  hollow  in  her  flushed  cheek,  and  pretty  little  bits 
of  lace  and  real  old  jewellery  nestling  close  to  her. 
And  while  she  turned  the  pages  of  Mr.  Balladyce*s 
book,  Thyme  sat  opposite  in  a  bright  blue  frock » 
and  turned  the  pages  of  Darwin*s  work  on  earth- 
worms. 

Regarding  her  "little  daughter,"  who  was  so  much 
more  solid  than  herself,  Cecilia's  face  wore  a  very 
sweet,  faintly  surprised  expression. 

"My  kitten  is  a  bonny  thing,'*  it  seemed  to  say. 
"It  is  queer  that  I  should  have  a  thing  so  large/* 

Outside  in  the  Square  Gardens  a  shower,  the  sun- 
light, and  blossoms,  were  entangled.  It  ^vas  the 
time  of  year  when  all  the  world  had  kittens;  young 
things  were  everywhere — soft,  sweet,  uncouth.  Cecilia 
felt  this  in  her  heart.  It  brought  depth  into  her 
bright,  quick  eyes.  What  a  secret  satisfaction  it 
was  that  she  had  once  so  far  committed  herself  as  to 
have  borne  a  child!  What  a  queer  vague  feeling  she 
sometimes  experienced  in  the  Spring — ^almost  amount- 
ing to  a  desire  to  bear  another!  So  one  may  mark 
the  warm  eye  of  a  staid  mare,  following  with  her 
gaze  the  first  strayings  of  her  foal.  "I  must  get 
used  to  it,"  she  seems  to  say.  "I  certainly  do 
miss  the  little  creature,  though  I  used  to  threaten 
her  with  my  hoofs,  to  show  I  could  n*t  be  bullied 
by  anything  of  that  age.  And  there  she  goes! 
Ah,  well!" 

Remembering  suddenly,  however,  that  she  was 
sitting  there  to  clear  off  Mr.  Balladyce,  because  it 
was  so  necessary  to  keep  up  with  what  he  wrote, 
Cecilia  dropped  her  gaze  to  the  page  before  her; 
and   instantly,   by   uncomfortable  chance,   not   the 


A  Day  of  Rest  185 

choice  pastures  of  Mr.  Balladyce  appeared,  where 
women  might  browse  at  leisure,  but  a  vision  of  the 
little  model.  She  had  not  thought  of  her  for  quite 
an  hour;  she  had  tired  herself  out  with  thinking 
— ^not,  indeed,  of  her,  but  of  all  that  hinged  on  her, 
ever  since  Stephen  had  spoken  of  his  talk  with  Hilary. 
Things  Hilary  had  said  seemed  to  Cecilia's  delicate  and 
rather  timid  soul  so  ominous,  so  unlike  himself.  Was 
theie  really  going  to  be  complete  disruption  between 
him  and  Bianca — ^worse,  an  ugly  scandal?  She,  who 
knew  her  sister  better,  perhaps,  than  anyone,  remem- 
bered from  schoolroom  days  Bianca*s  moody  violence 
when  anything  had  occurred  to  wound  her — ^remem- 
bered, too,  the  long  fits  of  brooding  that  followed. 
This  affair,  which  she  had  tried  to  persuade  herself 
was  exaggerated,  loomed  up  larger  than  ever.  It 
was  not  an  isolated  squib;  it  was  a  lighted  match 
held  to  a  train  of  gunpowder.  This  girl  of  the  people, 
coming  from  who  knew  where,  destined  for  who  knew 
what — ^this  young,  not  very  beautiful,  not  even 
clever  child,  with  nothing  but  a  sort  of  queer  haunting 
naivete  to  give  her  charm — ^might  even  be  a  finger  used 
by  Fate!  Cecilia  sat  very  still  before  that  sudden 
vision  of  the  girl.  There  was  no  staid  mare  to  guard 
that  foal  with  the  dark  devotion  of  her  eye.  There 
was  no  wise  whinnying  to  answer  back  those  tiny 
whinnies;  no  long  look  round  to  watch  the 
little  creature  nodding  to  sleep  on  its  thin  trem- 
bling legs  in  the  hot  sunlight;  no  ears  to  prick 
up  and  hoofs  to  stamp  at  the  approach  of  other 
living  things.  These  thoughts  passed  through 
Cecilia's  mind  and  were  gone,  being  too  far  and 
pale  to  stay.     Turning    the    page    which   she  had 


1 86  Fraternity 

not  been  reading,  she  heaved  a  sigh.  Thyme  sighed 
also. 

"These  worms  are  fearfully  interesting,*'  she  said. 
**Is  anybody  coming  in  this  afternoon?" 

"Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  was  going  to  bring  a 
young  man  in,  a  Signor  Pozzi — Egregio  Pozzi,  or 
some  such  name.  She  says  he  is  the  coming  pianist." 
Cecilia's  face  was  spiced  with  faint  amusement. 
Some  strain  of  her  breeding  (the  Carfax  strain,  no 
doubt)  still  heard  such  names  and  greeted  such 
proclivities  with  an  inclination  to  derision. 

Thyme  snatched  up  her  book.  "Well,'*  she  said, 
"I  shall  be  in  the  attic.  If  anyone  interesting  comes 
you  might  send  up  to  me.** 

She  stood,  luxuriously  stretching,  and  turning 
slowly  round  in  a  streak  of  sunlight  so  as  to  bathe 
her  body  in  it.  Then,  with  a  long  soft  yawn,  she 
flung  up  her  chin  till  the  sun  streamed  on  her  face. 
Her  eyelashes  rested  on  cheeks  already  faintly 
browned;  her  lips  were  parted;  little  shivers  of  delight 
ran  down  her;  her  chestnut  hair  glowed,  burnished 
by  the  kisses  of  the  sun. 

"Ah!**  Cecilia  thought,  "if  that  other  girl  were 
like  this  now,  I  could  understand  well  enough!** 

"Oh,  Lord!**  said  Thyme,  "there  they  are!" 
She  flew  towards  the  door. 

"My  dear,**  murmured  Cecilia,  "if  you  mtist  go, 
do  please  tell  father.** 

A  minute  later  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  came  in, 
followed  by  a  young  man  with  an  interesting,  pale 
face  and  a  crop  of  dusky  hair. 

Let  us  consider  for  a  minute  the  not  infrequent  case 
of  a  youth  cursed  with  an  Italian  mother  and  a  father 


A  Day  of  Rest  187 

of  the  name  of  Potts,  who  had  baptised  him  William. 
Had  he  emanated  from  the  lower  classes,  he  might 
with  impunity  have  ground  an  organ  under  the 
name  of  Bill;  but  springing  from  the  burgeoisie,  and 
playing  Chopin  at  the  age  of  four,  his  friends  had  been 
confronted  with  a  problem  of  no  mean  difficulty. 
Heaven,  on  the  threshold  of  his  career,  had  intervened 
to  solve  it.  Hovering,  as  it  were,  with  one  leg  raised 
before  the  gladiatorial  arena  of  musical  London,  where 
all  were  waiting  to  turn  their  thumbs  down  on  the 
figure  of  the  native  Potts,  he  had  received  a  letter 
from  his  mother's  birthplace.  It  was  inscribed: 
**Egregio  Signor  Pozzi."  He  was  saved.  By  the 
simple  inversion  of  the  first  two  words,  the  substi- 
tution of  z's  for  fs,  without  so  fortunately  making 
any  difference  in  the  sound,  and  the  retention  of  that 
i,  all  London  knew  him  now  to  be  the  rising  pianist. 

He  was  a  quiet,  well-mannered  youth,  invaluable 
just  then  to  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace,  a  woman 
never  happy  unless  slightly  leading  a  genius  in  strings. 

Cecilia,  while  engaging  them  to  right  and  left  in  her 
half -sympathetic,  faintly  mocking  way,  as  if  doubting 
whether  they  really  wanted  to  see  her  or  she  them — 
heard  a  word  of  fear. 

'*Mr.  Purcey.'' 

**0h,  Heaven!"  she  thought. 

Mr.  Purcey,  whose  A.  i.  Damyer  could  be  heard 
outside,  advanced  in  his  direct  and  simple  way. 

**I  thought  I'd  give  my  car  a  run,**  he  said. 
**How  's  your  sister?"  And  seeing  Mrs.  Tallents 
Smallpeace,  he  added :  *  *  How  do  you  do  ?  We  met  the 
other  day." 

**We  did,"  said  Mrs.  Tallents   Smallpeace,  whose 


1 88  Fraternity 

little  eyes  were  sparkling.  *'We  talked  about  the 
poor,  do  you  remember?'* 

Mr.  Purcey,  a  sensitive  man  if  you  could  get  through 
his  skin,  gave  her  a  shrewd  look.  **I  don't  quite 
cotton  to  this  woman,"  he  seemed  saying;  *Hhere  's  a 
laugh  about  her  I  don't  like." 

**Ah!  yes — ^you  were  tellin'  me  about  them." 

**0h,  Mr.  Purcey,  but  you  had  heard  of  them,  you 
remember!" 

Mr.  Purcey  made  a  movement  of  his  face  which 
caused  it  to  seem  all  jaw.  It  was  a  sort  of  uncon- 
scious declaration  of  a  somewhat  formidable  char- 
acter. So  one  may  see  bulldogs,  those  ^  amiable 
animals,  suddenly  disclose  their  tenacity. 

*'It  's  rather  a  blue  subject,"  he  said  bluntly. 

Something  in  Cecilia  fluttered  at  those  words.  It 
was  like  the  saying  of  a  healthy  man  looking  at  a  box 
of  pills  which  he  did  not  mean  to  open.  Why  could 
not  she  and  Stephen  keep  that  lid  on,  too?  And  at 
this  moment,  to  her  deep  astonishment,  Stephen 
entered.  She  had  sent  for  him,  it  is  true,  but  had 
never  expected  he  would  come. 

His  entrance,  indeed,  requires  explanation. 

Feeling,  as  he  said,  a  little  **off  colour,"  Stephen 
had  not  gone  to  Richmond  to  play  golf.  He  had 
spent  the  day  instead  in  the  company  of  his  pipe  and 
those  ancient  coins,  of  which  he  had  the  best  col- 
lection of  any  man  he  had  ever  met.  His  thoughts 
had  wandered  from  them,  more  than  he  thought 
proper,  to  Hilary  and  that  girl.  He  had  felt  from 
the  beginning  that  he  was  so  much  more  the  man  to 
deal  with  an  affair  like  this  than  poor  old  Hilary. 
When,  therefore,  Thyme  put  her  head  into  his  study 


A  Day  of  Rest  189 

and  said,  ''Father,  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace!" 
he  had  first  thought,  "That  busybody!"  and  then, 
**I  wonder — ^perhaps  I  'd  better  go  and  see  if  I  can 
get  anything  out  of  her.'* 

In  considering  Stephen's  attitude  towards  a  woman 
so  firmly  embedded  in  the  various  social  movements 
of  the  day,  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  represented 
that  large  class  of  men  who,  unhappily  too  cultivated 
to  put  aside,  like  Mr.  Purcey,  all  blue  subjects, 
or  deny  the  need  for  movements  to  make  them  less 
blue,  still  could  not  move,  for  fear  of  being  out  of 
order.  He  was  also  temperamentally  distrustful 
of  anything  too  feminine;  and  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace 
was  undoubtedly  extremely  feminine.  Her  merit, 
in  his  eyes,  consisted  of  her  attachment  to  Societies. 
So  long  as  mankind  worked  through  Societies,  Stephen, 
who  knew  the  power  of  rules  and  minute  books,  did 
not  despair  of  too  little  progress  being  made.  He 
sat  down  beside  her,  and  turned  the  conversation 
on  her  chief  work — *'the  maids  in  peril." 

Searching  his  face  with  those  eyes  so  like  little  black 
bees  sipping  honey  from  all  the  flowers  that  grew, 
Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  said: 

''Why  don't  you  get  your  wife  to  take  an  interest 
in  our  work?" 

To  Stephen  this  question  was  naturally  both  un- 
expected and  annoying,  one's  wife  being  the  last 
person  he  wished  to  interest  in  other  people's  move- 
ments.    He  kept  his  head. 

"Ah,  well!"  he  said,  "we  haven't  all  got  a  talent 
for  that  sort  of  thing." 

The  voice  of  Mr.  Purcey  travelled  suddenly  across 
the  room. 


190  Fraternity 

**Do  tell  me!  How  do  you  go  to  work  to  worm 
things  out  of  them?" 

Mrs.  TallentsSmallpeace,  prone  to  laughter,  bubbled. 

**0h,  that  is  such  a  delicious  expression,  Mr. 
Piircey!  I  almost  think  we  ought  to  use  it  in  our 
Report.     Thank  you!'* 

Mr.  Purcey  bowed.     *'Not  at  all!"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  turned  again  to  Stephen. 

**We  have  our  trained  inquirers.  That  is  the 
advantage  of  Societies  such  as  ours;  so  that  we 
don't  personally  have  the  unpleasantness.  Some 
cases  do  baffie  everybody.  It 's  such  very  delicate 
work." 

*'You  sometimes  find  you  let  in  a  rotter?"  said 
Mr.  Purcey — '*or,  I  should  say,  a  rotter  lets  you  in! 
Ha,  ha!" 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace's  eyes  flew  deliciously 
down  his  figure. 

"Not  often,"  she  said;  and  turning  rather  markedly 
once  more  to  Stephen:  **Have  you  any  special  case 
that  you  are  interested  in,  Mr.  Dallison?" 

Stephen  consulted  Cecilia  with  one  of  those  mascu- 
line half  glances  so  discreet  that  Mrs.  Tallents  Small- 
peace  intercepted  it  without  looking  up.  She  found 
it  rather  harder  to  catch  Cecilia's  reply,  but  she  caught 
it  before  Stephen  did.  It  was:  **  You  'd  better  wait, 
perhaps,"  conveyed  by  a  tiny  raising  of  the  left 
eyebrow  and  a  slight  movement  to  the  right  of  the 
lower  lip.  Putting  two  and  two  together,  she  felt 
within  her  bones  that  they  were  thinking  of  the  little 
model.  And  she  remembered  the  interesting  moment 
in  the  omnibus  when  that  attractive-looking  man  had 
got  out  so  hastily. 


A  Day  of  Rest  191 

There  was  no  danger  whatever  in  Mrs.  Tallents 
Smallpeace  feeling  anything.  The  circle  in  which 
she  moved  did  not  now  talk  scandal,  or,  indeed,  allude 
to  matters  of  that  sort  without  deep  sympathy;  and 
in  the  second  place  she  was  really  far  too  good  a  fellow, 
with  far  too  dear  a  love  of  life,  to  interfere  with  any- 
body else's  love  of  it.  At  the  same  time  it  was 
interesting. 

**That  little  model,  now,"  she  said,  **what  about 
her?" 

**Is  that  the  girl  I  saw?"  broke  in  Mr.  Purcey,  with 
his  accustomed  shrewdness. 

Stephen  gave  him  the  look  with  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  curdle  the  blood  of  persons  who  gave 
evidence  before  Commission. 

"This  fellow  is  impossible,"  he  thought. 

The  little  black  bees  flying  below  Mrs.  Tallents 
Smallpeace's  dark  hair,  done  in  the  Early  Italian 
fashion,  tranquilly  sucked  honey  from  Stephen's 
face.  ,, 

'*She  seemed  to  me/.'  she  answered,  "such  a  very 
likely  type." 

**Ah!"  murmured  Stephen,  "there  would  be,  I 
suppose,  a  danger — "  And  he  looked  angrily  at 
Cecilia. 

Without  ceasing  to  converse  with  Mr.  Purcey  and 
Signor  Egregio  Pozzi,  she  moved  her  left  eye  upwards. 
Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  understood  this  to  mean: 
"Be  frank,  and  guarded!"  Stephen,  however,  in- 
terpreted it  otherwise.  To  him  it  signified:  "What 
the  deuce  do  you  look  at  me  for  ? "  And  he  felt  justly 
hurt.     He  therefore  said  abruptly: 

"What  would  you  do  in  a  case  like  that?" 


192  Fraternity 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace,  sliding  her  face  side- 
ways, with  a  really  charming  little  smile,  asked  softly: 

**In  a  case  like  what?** 

And  her  little  eyes  fled  to  Thyme,  who  had  slipped 
into  the  room,  and  was  whispering  to  her  mother. 

Cecilia  rose. 

"You  know  my  daughter,"  she  said.  **Will  you 
excuse  me  just  a  minute?  I  'm  so  very  sorry."  She 
glided  towards  the  door,  and  threw  a  flying  look  back. 
It  was  one  of  those  social  moments  precious  to  those 
who  are  escaping  them. 

Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  was  smiling,  Stephen 
frowning  at  his  boots;  Mr.  Purcey  stared  admiringly 
at  Thyme,  and  Thyme,  sitting  very  upright,  was  calmly 
regarding  the  unfortunate  Egregio  Pozzi,  who  ap- 
parently could  not  bring  himself  to  speak. 

When  Cecilia  found  herself  outside,  she  stood  still 
a  moment  to  compose  her  nerves.  Thyme  had  told 
her  that  Hilary  was  in  the  dining-room,  and  wanted 
specially  to  see  her. 

As  in  most  women  -of  her  class  and  bringing-up, 
Cecilia's  qualities  of  reticence  and  subtlety,  the 
delicate  treading  of  her  spirit,  were  seen  to  advantage 
in  a  situation  such  as  this.  Unlike  Stephen,  who 
had  shown  at  once  that  he  had  something  on  his 
mind,  she  received  Hilary  with  that  exact  shade  of 
friendly,  intimate,  yet  cool  affection  long  established 
by  her  as  the  proper  manner  towards  her  husband's 
brother.  It  was  not  quite  sisterly,  but  it  was  very 
nearly  so.  It  seemed  to  say:  "We  understand  each 
other  as  far  as  it  is  right  and  fitting  that  we  should; 
we  even  sympathise  with  the  difficulties  we  have 
each  of  us  experienced  in  marrying  the  other's  sister 


A  Day  of  Rest  193 

or  brother,  as  the  case  may  be.  We  know  the  worst. 
And  we  like  to  see  each  other,  too,  because  there  are 
bars  between  us,  which  make  it  almost  piquant.'* 

Giving  him  her  soft  little  hand,  she  began  at  once 
to  talk  of  things  farthest  from  her  heart.  She  saw 
that  she  was  deceiving  Hilary,  and  this  feather  in  the 
cap  of  her  subtlety  gave  her  pleasure.  But  her  nerves 
fluttered  at  once  when  he  said:  **I  want  to  speak  to 
you,  Cis.  You  know  that  Stephen  and  I  had  a  talk 
yesterday,  I  suppose?" 

Cecilia  nodded. 

**I  have  spoken  to  B.!" 

"Oh!"  Cecilia  murmured.  She  longed  to  ask 
what  Bianca  had  said,  but  did  not  dare,  for  Hilary 
had  his  armour  on,  the  retired,  ironical  look  he  always 
wore  when  any  subject  was  broached  for  which  he 
was  too  sensitive. 

She  waited. 

**The  whole  thing  is  distasteful  to  me,"  he  said; 
"but  I  must  do  something  for  this  child.  I  can't  leave 
her  completely  in  the  lurch.*' 

Cecilia  had  an  inspiration. 

"Hilary,'*  she  said  softly,  "Mrs.  Tallents  Small- 
peace  is  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  just  speaking 
of  the  girl  to  Stephen.  Won't  you  come  in,  and  ar- 
range with  her  quietly?" 

Hilary  looked  at  his  sister-in-law  for  a  moment 
without  speaking,  then  said : 

"I  draw  the  line  there.  No,  thank  you.  I'll 
see  this  through  myself." 

Cecilia  fluttered  out : 

"Oh,  but,  Hilary,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  'm  going  to  put  an  end  to  it." 


194  Fraternity 

It  needed  all  Cecilia^s  subtlety  to  hide  her  consterna- 
tion. End  to  what?  Did  he  mean  that  he  and  B. 
were  going  to  separate? 

"I  won't  have  all  this  vulgar  gossip  about  the 
poor  girl.  I  shall  go  and  find  another  room  for 
her." 

Cecilia  sighed  with  relief. 

**  Would  you — ^would  you  like  me  to  come  too, 
Hilary?" 

**It  's  very  good  of  you,"  said  Hilary  dryly.  "My 
actions  appear  to  rouse  suspicion." 

Cecilia  blushed. 

**0h,  that  *s  absurd!  Still,  no  one  could. think  any- 
thing  if  I  come  with  you.  Hilary,  have  you  thought 
that  if  she  continues  coming  to  father " 

'*I  shall  tell  her  that  she  must  n't  I" 

Cecilia's  heart  gave  two  thumps,  the  first  with 
pleasure,  the  second  with  sympathy. 

**It  will  be  horrid  for  you,"  she  said.  **You  hate 
doing  anything  of  that  sort." 

Hilary  nodded. 

'*But  I'm  afraid  it's  the  only  way,"  went  on 
Cecilia,  rather  hastily.  **And,  of  course,  it  will  be 
no  good  saying  anything  to  father;  one  must  simply 
let  him  suppose  that  she  has  got  tired  of  it." 

Again  Hilary  nodded. 

**He  will  think  it  very  funny,"  murmured  Cecilia 
pensively.  **0h,  and  have  you  thought  that  taking 
her  away  from  where  she  is  will  only  make  those 
people  talk  the  more?" 

Hilary  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'*It  may  make  that  man  furious,"  Cecilia  added. 

"It  will." 


A  Day  of  Rest  195 

"Oh,  but  then,  of  course,  if  you  don*t  see  her  after- 
wards, they  will  have  no — ^no  excuse  at  all.*' 

**I  shall  not  see  her  afterwards,**  said  Hilary,  **if 
I  can  avoid  it/* 

Cecilia  looked  at  him. 

**It  *s  very  sweet  of  you,  Hilary." 

**  What  is  sweet?**  asked  Hilary  stonily. 

'*Why,  to  take  all  this  trouble.  Is  it  really  neces- 
sary for  you  to  do  anything?*'  But  looking  in  his 
face,  she  went  on  hastily:  **  Yes,  yes,  it  *s  best.  Let  *s 
go  at  once.  Oh,  those  people  in  the  drawing-room! 
Do  wait  ten  minutes.** 

A  little  later,  running  up  to  put  her  hat  on,  she 
wondered  why  it  was  that  Hilary  always  made  her 
want  to  comfort  him.  Stephen  never  affected  her 
like  this. 

Having  little  or  no  notion  where  to  go,  they  walked 
in  the  direction  of  Bayswater.  To  place  the  Park 
between  Hound  Street  and  the  little  model  was  the 
first  essential.  On  arriving  at  the  other  side  of  the 
Broad  Walk,  they  made  instinctively  away  from  every 
sight  of  green.  In  a  long,  grey  street  of  dismally 
respectable  appearance  they  found  what  they  were 
looking  for,  a  bed-sitting-room  furnished,  advertised 
on  a  card  in  the  window.  The  door  was  opened  by 
the  landlady,  a  tall  woman  of  narrow  build,  with  a 
West-Coimtry  accent,  and  a  rather  hungry  sweetness 
running  through  her  hardness.  They  stood  talking 
with  her  in  a  passage,  whose  oilcloth  of  variegated 
pattern  emitted  a  faint  odour.  The  staircase  could 
be  seen  climbing  steeply  up  past  walls  covered  with 
a  shining  paper  cut  by  naiTow  red  lines  into  small 
yellow  squares.     An  almanac,  of  so  floral  a  design 


196  Fraternity 

that  nobody  would  surely  want  to  steal  it,  hung  on 
the  wall;  below  it  was  an  umbrella  stand  without 
umbrellas.  The  dim  little  passage  led  past  two 
grimly  closed  doors  painted  rusty  red  to  two  half- 
open  doors  with  dull  glass  in  their  panels.  Outside 
in  the  street  from  which  they  had  mounted  by  stone 
steps,  a  shower  of  sleet  had  begun  to  fall.  Hilary 
shut  the  door,  but  the  cold  spirit  of  that  shower  had 
already  slipped  into  the  bleak,  narrow  house. 

"This  is  the  apartment,  m*m,"  said  the  landlady, 
opening  the  first  of  the  rusty-coloured  doors.  The 
room,  which  had  a  paper  of  blue  roses  on  a  yellow 
ground,  was  separated  from  another  room  by  double 
doors. 

**I  let  the  rooms  together  sometimes,  but  just 
now  that  room  's  taken — a  young  gentleman  in  the 
City;  that 's  why  I  'm  able  to  let  this  cheap." 

Cecilia  looked  at  Hilary.     **I  hardly  think '* 

The  landlady  quickly  turned  the  handles  of  the 
doors,  showing  that  they  would  not  open. 

''I  keep  the  key,"  she  said;  ** there's  a  bolt  on 
both  sides." 

Reassured,  Cecilia  walked  round  the  room  as 
far  as  this  was  possible,  for  it  was  practically  all 
furniture.  There  was  the  same  little  wrinkle  across 
her  nose  as  across  Thyme's  nose  when  she  spoke  of 
Hound  Street.  Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  Hilary. 
He  was  standing  with  his  back  against  the  door. 
On  his  face  was  a  strange  and  bitter  look,  such  as 
a  man  might  have  on  seeing  the  face  of  Ugliness 
herself,  feeling  that  she  was  not  only  without  him, 
but  within —a  universal  spirit;  the  look  of  a  man 
who  had  thought  that  he  was  chivalrous,  and  found 


A  Day  of  Rest  197 

that  he  was  not;  of  a  leader  about  to  give  an  order 
that  he  would  not  himself  have  executed. 

Seeing  that  look,  Cecilia  said  with  some  haste: 

"It 's  all  very  nice  and  clean;  it  will  do  very  well^ 
I  think.  Seven  shillings  a  week,  I  believe  you  said. 
We  will  take  it  for  a  fortnight,  at  all  events." 

The  first  glimmer  of  a  smile  appeared  on  the 
landlady's  grim  face,  with  its  hungry  eyes,  sweetened 
by  patience. 

"When  would  she  be  coming  in?"  she  asked. 

"  When  do  you  think,  Hilary  ? '  * 

"I  don't  know,"  muttered  Hilary.  "The  sooner 
the  better— if  it  must  be.  To-morrow,  or  the  day 
after." 

And  with  one  look  at  the  bed,  covered  with  a 
piece  of  cheap  red-and-yellow  tasselled  tapestry,  he 
went  out  into  the  street.  The  shower  was  over,  but 
the  house  faced  north,  and  no  sun  was  shining  on  it. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HILARY  PUTS  AN  END  TO  IT 

LIKE  flies  caught  among  the  impalpable  and 
smoky  threads  of  cobwebs,  so  men  struggle 
in  the  webs  of  their  own  natures,  giving  here  a 
start,  there  a  pitiful  small  jerking,  long  sustained, 
and  failing  into  stillness.  Enmeshed  they  were  born, 
enmeshed  they  die,  fighting  according  to  their  strength 
to  the  end;  to  fight  in  the  hope  of  freedom,  their  joy; 
to  die,  not  knowing  they  are  beaten,  their  reward. 
Nothing,  too,  is  more  to  be  remarked  than  the  manner 
in  which  Life  devises  for  each  man  the  particular 
dilemmas  most  suited  to  his  nature;  that  which  to 
the  man  of  gross,  decided,  or  fanatic  turn  of  mind 
appears  a  simple  sum,  to  the  man  of  delicate  and 
speculative  temper  seenis  to  have  no  answer. 

So  it  was  with  Hilary  in  that  special  web  wherein 
his  spirit  struggled,  sunrise  unto  sunset,  and  by 
moonlight  afterward.  Inclination,  and  the  circum- 
stances of  a  life  which  had  nev^Jlorced  him  to  grips  I 
with  either  men  or  women,  had  detached  him  from  I 
the  n^cessitj^^Jor  giving  or  taking  orders.  He  had 
almost  lost  the  faculty.  Life  had  been  a  picture 
with  blurred  outlines  melting  into  a  softly  shaded 
whole.  Not  for  years  had  anything  seemed  to  him 
quite  a  case  for  **Yes**  or  **No."  It  had  been  his 
creed,  his  delight,  his  business,  too,  to  try(and^ut 
himself  in   everybody's   place,    so   that   nowTthere 

198  lf>) 


Hilary  Puts  an  End  to  It         199 

were  but  few  places  where  he  did  not,  speculatively 
speaking,  feel  at  home. 

Putting  himself  into  the  little  modeFs  place 
gave  him  but  small  delight.  Making  due  allow- 
ance for  the  sentiment  men  naturally  import 
into  their  appreciation  of  the  lives  of  women, 
his  conception  of  her  place  was  doubtless  not  so 
very  wrong. 

Here  was  a  child,  barely  twenty  years  of  age, 
country  bred,  neither  a  lady  nor  quite  a  working- 
girl,  without  a  home  or  relatives,  according  to  her  own 
account — at  all  events,  without  those  who  were  dis- 
posed to  help  her, — without  apparently  any  sort  of 
friend;  helpless  by  nature,  and  whose  profession  re- 
quired a  more  than  common  wariness — this  girl  he  was 
proposing  to  set  quite  adrift  again  by  cutting  through 
the  single  slender  rope  which  tethered  her.  It  was  like 
digging  up  a  little  rose-tree  planted  with  one's  own 
hands  in  some  poor  shelter,  just  when  it  had  taken 
root,  and  setting  it  where  the  full  winds  would  beat 
against  it.  To  do  so  brusque  and,  as  it  seemed  to 
Hilary,  so  inhumane  a  thing  was  foreign  to  his  nature. 
There  was  also  the  little  matter  of  that  touch  of 
fever — the  distant  music  he  had  been  hearing  since 
the  waggons  came  into  Covent  Garden. 

With  a  feeling  that  was  almost  misery,  therefore, 
he  waited  for  her  on  Monday  afternoon,  walking 
to  and  fro  in  his  study,  where  all  the  walls  were 
white,  and  all  the  woodwork  coloured  like  the  leaf 
of  a  cigar;  where  the  books  were  that  colour  too", 
in  Hilary's  special  deerskin  binding;  where  there 
were  no  flowers  nor  any  sunlight  coming  through 
the  windows,  but  plenty  of  sheets  of  paper — a  room 


200  Fraternity 

that  youth  seemed  to  have  left  for  ever,  the  room 
of  middle-age ! 

He  called  her  in  with  the  intention  of  at  once 
saying  what  he  had  to  say,  and  getting  it  over  in 
the  fewest  words.  But  he  had  not  reckoned  fully 
either  with  his  own  nature  or  with  woman's  instinct. 
Nor  had  he  allowed— being,  for  all  his  learning, 
perhaps  because  of  it,  singularly  unable  to  gauge 
the  effects  of  simple  actions— for  the  proprietary 
relations  he  had  established  in  the  girPs  mind  by 
giving  her  those  clothes. 

As  a  dog  whose  master  has  it  in  his  mind  to  go 
away  from  him  stands  gazing  up  with  tragic  inquiry 
in  his  eyes,  scenting  to  his  soul  that  coming  cruelty — 
as  a  dog  thus  soon  to  be  bereaved,  so  stood  the  little 
model. 

By  the  pose  of  every  limb,  and  a  fixed  gaze  bright 
as  if  tears  were  behind  it,  and  by  a  sort  of  trembling,  * 
she  seemed  to  say:    "I  know  why  you  have  sent  for 


me. 


When  Hilary  saw  her  stand  like  that  he  felt  as 
a  man  might  when  told  to  flog  his  fellow-creature. 
To  gain  time  he  asked  her  what  she  did  with  herself 
all  day.  The  little  model  evidently  tried  to  tell 
herself  that  her  foreboding  had  been  needless. 

Now  that  the  mornings  were  nice — she  said  with 
some  animation — she  got  up  much  earlier,  and  did 
her  needlework  first  thing;  she  then  *'did  out**  the 
room.  There  were  mouse-holes  in  her  room,  and 
she  had  bought  a  trap.  She  had  caught  a  mouse  last 
night.  She  hadn't  liked  to  kill  it;  she  had  put  it 
in  a  tin  box,  and  let  it  go  when  she  went  out.  Quick 
to  see  that  Hilary  was  interested  in  this,  as  well  he 


Hilary  Puts  an  End  to  It         201 

might  be,  she  told  him  that  she  could  not  bear  to 
see  cats  hungry  or  lost  dogs,  especially  lost  dogs, 
and  she  described  to  him  one  that  she  had  seen. 
She  had  not  liked  to  tell  a  policeman;  they  stared 
so  hard.  Those  words  were  of  strange  omen,  and 
Hilary  turned  his  head  away.  The  little  model, 
perceiving  that  she  had  made  an  effect  of  some 
sort,  tried  to  deepen  it.  She  had  heard  they  did 
all  sorts  of  things  to  people — but,  seeing  at  once  from 
Hilary's  face  that  she  was  not  improving  her  effect, 
she  broke  off  suddenly,  and  hastily  began  to  tell 
him  of  her  breakfast,  of  how  comfortable  she  was 
now  she  had  got  her  clothes;  how  she  liked  her 
room;  how  old  Mr.  Creed  was  very  funny,  never 
taking  any  notice  of  her  when  he  met  her  in  the 
morning.  Then  followed  a  minute  account  of  where 
she  had  been  trying  to  get  work;  of  an  engagement 
promised;  Mr.  Lennard,  too,  still  wanted  her  to 
pose  to  him.  At  this  she  flashed  a  look  at  Hilary, 
then  cast  down  her  eyes.  She  could  get  plenty  of 
work  if  she  began  that  way.  But  she  had  n't,  because 
he  had  told  her  not,  and,  of  course,  she  did  n't  want 
to;  she  liked  coming  to  Mr.  Stone  so  much.  And 
she  got  on  very  well,  and  she  liked  London,  and 
she  liked  the  shops.  She  mentioned  neither  Hughs 
nor  Mrs.  Hughs.  In  all  this  rigmarole,  told  with 
such  obvious  purpose,  stolidity  was  strangely  mingled 
with  almost  cunning  quickness  to  see  the  effect 
made;  but  the  doglike  devotion  was  never  quite 
out  of  her  eyes  when  they  were  fixed  on  Hilary. 

This  look  got  through  the  weakest  places  in  what 
little  armour  Nature  had  bestowed  on  him.  It 
touched  one  of  the  least  conceited  and  most  amiable 


202  Fraternity 

of  men  profoundly.  He  felt  it  an  honour  that  any- 
thing so  young  as  this  should  regard  him  in  that 
way.  He  had  always  tried  to  keep  out  of  his  mind 
that  which  might  have  given  him  the  key  to  her 
special  feeling  for  himself — those  words  of  the  painter 
of  still  life:  **She  's  got  a  story  of  some  sort.*'  But 
it  flashed  across  him  suddenly  like  an  inspiration: 
If  her  story  were  the  simplest  of  all  stories — the 
direct,  rather  brutal,  love  affair  of  a  village  boy 
and  girl — would  not  she,  naturally  given  to  surrender, 
be  forced  this  time  to  the  very  antithesis  of  that 
young  animal  amour  which  had  brought  on  her 
such  sharp  consequences? 

But,  wherever  her  devotion  came  from,  it  seemed 
to  Hilary  the  grossest  violation  of  the  feelings  of 
a  gentleman  to  treat  it  ungratefully.  Yet  it  was 
as  if  for  the  purpose  of  saying,  "You  are  a  nuisance 
to  me,  or  worse!"  that  he  had  asked  her  to  his  study. 
Her  presence  had  hitherto  chiefly  roused  in  him 
the  half-amused,  half-tender  feelings  of  one  who 
strokes  a  foal  or  calf,  watching  its  soft  uncouthness; 
now,  about  to  say  good-bye  to  her,  there  was  the 
question  of  whether  that  was  the  only  feeling. 

Miranda,  stealing  out  between  her  master  and  his 
visitor,  growled. 

The  little  model,  who  was  stroking  a  china  ash- 
tray with  her  ungloved,  inky  fingers,  muttered 
with  a  smile,  half  pathetic,  half  cynical:  *'She 
doesn't  like  me!  She  knows  I  don't  belong  here. 
She  hates  me  to  come.     She  's  jealous!" 

Hilary  said  abruptly: 

**  Tell  me  I  Have  you  made  any  friends  since  you  've 
been  in  London?" 


Hilary  Puts  an  End  to  It         203 

The  girl  flashed  a  look  at  him  that  said: 

** Could  I  make  you  jealous?" 

Then,  as  though  guilty  of  a  far  too  daring  thought, 
drooped  her  head,  and  answered: 

"No." 

"Not  one?" 

The  little  model  repeated  almost  passionately: 
**No.  I  don't  want  any  friends;  I  only  want  to  be 
let  alone." 

Hilary  began  speaking  rapidly. 

"But  these  Hughs  have  not  left  you  alone.  I 
told  you,  I  thought  you  ought  to  move;  I  've  taken 
another  room  for  you  quite  away  from  them.  Leave 
your  furniture  with  a  week's  rent,  and  take  your 
trunk  quietly  away  to-morrow  in  a  cab  without 
saying  a  word  to  anyone.  This  is  the  new  address, 
and  here  's  the  money  for  your  expenses.  They  *re 
dangerous  for  you,  those  people." 

The  little  model  muttered  desperately:  "But  I 
don't  care  what  they  do!" 

Hilary  went  on:  "Listen!  You  mustn't  come 
here  again,  or  the  man  will  trace  you.  We  will  take 
care  you  have  what 's  necessary  till  you  can  get 
other  work." 

The  little  model  looked  up  at  him  without  a  word. 
Now  that  the  thin  link  which  bound  her  to  some 
sort  of  household  gods  had  snapped,  all  the  patience 
and  submission  bred  in  her  by  village  life,  by  the  hard 
facts  of  her  story,  and  by  these  last  months  in  London, 
served  her  well  enough.  She  made  no  fuss.  Hilary 
saw  a  tear  roll  down  her  cheek. 

He  turned  his  head  away,  and  said:  "Don't  cry, 
mychUd!" 


204  Fraternity 

Quite  obediently  the  little  model  swallowed  the 
tear.     A  thought  seemed  to  strike  her: 

"But  I  could  see  you,  Mr.  Dallison,  couldn't  I, 
sometimes?" 

Seeing  from  his  face  that  this  was  not  in  the  pro- 
gramme, she  stood  silent  again,  looking  up  at  him. 

It  was  a  little  difficult  for  Hilary  to  say:  "I  can't 
see  you  because  my  wife  is  jealous!''  It  was  cruel 
to  tell  her:  **I  don't  want  to  see  you!" — besides, 
it  was  not  true. 

"You  '11  soon  be  making  friends,"  he  said  at  last, 
"and  you  can  always  write  to  me";  and  with  a 
queer  smile  he  added:  "You  're  only  just  beginning 
life;  you  must  n't  take  these  things  to  heart;  you  '11 
find  plenty  of  people  better  able  to  advise  and  help 
you  than  ever  I  shall  be!" 

The  little  model  answered  this  by  seizing  his  hand 
with  both  of  hers.  She  dropped  it  again  at  once,  as 
if  guilty  of  presumption,  and  stood  with  her  head 
bent.  Hilary,  looking  down  on  the  little  hat  which, 
by  his  special  wish,  contained  no  feathers,  felt  a 
lump  rise  in  his  throat. 

"It's  funny,"  he  said;  "I  don't  know  your 
Christian  name." 

"Ivy,"  muttered  the  little  model. 

"Ivy!  Well,  I  '11  write  to  you.  But  you  must 
promise  me  to  do  exactly  as  I  said." 

The  girl  looked  up;  her  face  was  almost  ugly — 
like  a  child's  in  whom  a  storm  of  feeling  is  repressed. 

"Promise!"  repeated  Hilary. 

With  a  bitter  droop  of  her  lower  lip,  she  nodded, 
and  suddenly  put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  That 
action,   of  which   she   was   clearly   unconscious,    so 


Hilary  Puts  an  End  to  It         205 

naively,  so  almost  automatically  was  it  done,  nearly 
put  an  end  to  Hilary's  determination. 

**Now  you  must  go,'*  he  said. 

The  little  model  choked,  grew  very  red,  and  then 
quite  white. 

**  Are  n't  I  even  to  say  good-bye  to  Mr.  Stone?" 

Hilary  shook  his  head. 

'*He'll  miss  me,"  she  said  desperately.  **He 
will.     I  know  he  will!" 

"So  shall  I,"  said  Hilary.    **  We  can't  help  that." 

The  little  model  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height ; 
her  breast  heaved  beneath  the  clothes  which  had 
made  her  Hilary's.  She  was  very  like  **The  Shadow" 
at  that  moment,  as  though  whatever  Hilary  might 
do  there  she  would  be — a  little  ghost,  the  spirit  of 
the  helpless  submerged  world,  for  ever  haunting 
with  its  dumb  appeal  the  minds  of  men. 

"Give  me  your  hand,"  said  Hilary. 

The  little  model  put  out  her  not  too  white,  small 
hand.     It  was  soft,  clinging,  and  as  hot  as  fire. 

"Good-bye,  my  dear,  and  bless  you!" 

The  little  model  gave  him  a  look  with  who-knows- 
what  of  reproach  in  it,  and  faithful  to  her  training, 
went  submissively  away. 

Hilary  did  not  look  after  her,  but,  standing  by  the 
lofty  mantelpiece  above  the  ashes  of  the  fire,  rested 
his  forehead  on  his  arm.  Not  even  a  fly's  buzzing 
broke  the  stillness.  There  was  sound  for  all  that — 
not  of  distant  music,  but  of  blood  beating  in  his 
ears  and  temples. 


CHAPTER    XXIIl 

THE  **BOOK  OP  UNIVERSAL  BROTHERHOOD'* 

IT  is  fitting  that  a  few  words  should  be  said  about 
the  writer  of  the  Book  of  Universal  Brother- 
hood. 

Sylvanus  Stone,  having  graduated  very  highly 
at  the  London  University,  had  been  appointed  at 
an  early  age  lecturer  to  more  than  one  Public  In- 
stitution. He  had  soon  received  the  professorial 
robes  due  to  a  man  of  his  profound  learning  in  the 
natural  sciences,  and  from  that  time  till  he  was 
seventy  his  life  had  flowed  on  in  one  continual  round 
of  lectures,  addresses,  disquisitions,  and  arguments 
on  the  subjects  in  which  he  was  a  specialist.  At 
the  age  of  seventy,  long  after  his  wife's  death  and 
the  marriages  of  his  three  children,  he  had  for  some 
time  been  living  by  himself,  when  a  very  serious 
illness — the  result  of  liberties  taken  with  an  iron 
constitution  by  a  single  mind — prostrated  him. 

During  the  long  convalescence  following  this 
illness  the  power  of  contemplation,  which  the  Pro- 
fessor had  up  to  then  given  to  natural  science,  began 
to  fix  itself  on  life  at  large.  But  the  mind  which 
had  made  of  natural  science  an  idea,  a  passion,  was 
not  content  with  vague  reflections  on  life.  Slowly, 
subtly,  with  irresistible  centrifugal  force — with  a 
force  which  perhaps  it  would  not  have  acquired  but 
for  that  illness-— the  idea,  the  passion  of  Universal 

206 


*'  Book  of  Universal  Brotherhood  "    207 

Brotherhood  had  sucked  into  itself  all  his  errant 
wonderings  on  the  riddle  of  existence.  The  single 
mind  of  this  old  man,  divorced  by  illness  from  his 
previous  existence,  pensioned  and  permanently 
shelved,  began  to  worship  a  new  star,  that  with 
every  week  and  month  and  year  grew  brighter,  till 
all  other  stars  had  lost  their  glimmer  and  died  out. 

At  the  age  of  seventy-four  he  had  begun  his  book. 
Under  the  spell  of  his  subject  and  of  advancing  age, 
his  extreme  inattention  to  passing  matters  became 
rapidly  accentuated.  His  figure  had  become  al- 
most too  publicly  conspicuous  before  Bianca,  finding 
him  one  day  seated  on  the  roof  of  his  lonely  little 
top-story  flat,  the  better  to  contemplate  his  darling 
Universe,  had  inveigled  him  home  with  her,  and 
installed  him  in  a  room  in  her  own  house.  After 
the  first  day  or  two  he  had  not  noticed  any  change 
to  speak  of. 

His  habits  in  his  new  home  were  soon  formed, 
and  once  formed,  they  varied  not  at  all;  for  he 
admitted  into  his  life  nothing  that  took  him  from 
the  writing  of  his  book. 

On  the  afternoon  following  Hilary's  dismissal  of 
the  little  model,  being  disappointed  of  his  amanuensis, 
Mr.  Stone  had  waited  for  an  hour,  reading  his  pages 
over  and  over  to  himself.  He  had  then  done  his 
exercises.  At  the  usual  time  for  tea  he  had  sat 
down,  and,  with  his  cup  and  brown  bread-and-butter 
alternately  at  his  lips,  had  looked  long  and  fixedly 
at  the  place  where  the  girl  was  wont  to  sit.  Having 
finished,  he  left  the  room  and  went  about  the  house. 
He  fotmd  no  one  but  Miranda,  who,  seated  in  the 
passage  leading  to  the  studio,  was  trying  to  keep 


2o8  Fraternity 

one  eye  on  the  absence  of  her  master  and  the  other 
on  the  absence  of  her  mistress.  She  joined  Mr. 
Stone,  maintaining  a  respect-compelling  interval 
behind  him  when  he  went  before,  and  before  him 
when  he  went  behind.  When  they  had  finished 
hunting,  Mr.  Stone  went  down  to  the  garden  gate. 
Here  Bianca  found  him  presently,  motionless,  without 
a  hat,  in  the  full  sun,  craning  his  white  head  in  the 
direction  from  which  he  knew  the  little  model  habit- 
ually came. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  was  herself  returning  from 
her  annual  visit  to  the  Royal  Academy,  where  she 
still  went,  as  dogs,  from  some  perverted  sense,  will 
go  and  sniff  round  other  dogs  to  whom  they  have 
long  taken  a  dislike.  A  loose-hanging  veil  depended 
from  her  mushroom-shaped  and  coloured  hat.  Her 
eyes  were  brightened  by  her  visit. 

Mr.  Stone  soon  seemed  to  take  in  who  she  was,  and 
stood  regarding  her  a  minute  without  speaking.  His 
attitude  towards  his  daughters  was  rather  like  that 
of  an  old  drake  towards  two  swans  whom  he  has  in- 
advertently begotten— there  was  inquiry  in  it,  dis- 
approval, admiration,  and  faint  surprise. 

**  Why  has  she  not  come?"  he  said. 

Bianca  winced  behind  her  veil.  **Have  you  asked 
Hilary?" 

*'I  cannot  find  him,"  answered  Mr.  Stone.  Some- 
thing about  his  patient  stooping  figure  and  white 
head,  on  which  the  sunlight  was  falling,  made  Bianca 
slip  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

**Come  in,  Dad.     I  11  do  your  copying." 

Mr.  Stone  looked  at  her  intently,  and  shook  his 
head. 


*'  Book  of  Universal  Brotherhood  "    209 

*'It  would  be  against  my  principles;  I  cannot  take 
an  unpaid  service.  But  if  you  would  come,  my  dear, 
I  should  like  to  read  to  you.     It  is  stimulating." 

At  that  request  Bianca's  eyes  grew  dim.  Pressing 
Mr.  Stone's  shaggy  arm  against  her  breast,  she  moved 
with  him  towards  the  house. 

**1  think  I  may  have  written  something  that  will 
interest  you,"  Mr.  Stone  said,  as  they  went  along. 

"I  am  sure  you  have,"  Bianca  murmured. 

"It  is  universal,"  said  Mr.  Stone;  **it  concerns 
birth.  Sit  at  the  table.  I  will  begin,  as  usual,  where 
I  left  off  yesterday." 

Bianca  took  the  little  model's  seat,  resting  her  chin 
on  her  hand,  as  motionless  as  any  of  the  statues  she 
had  just  been  viewing. 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  Mr.  Stone  were  feeling 
nervous.  He  twice  arranged  his  papers,  cleared  his 
throat;  then,  lifting  a  sheet  suddenly,  took  three  steps, 
turned  his  back  on  her,  and  began  to  read. 

"  *In  that  slow,  incessant  change  of  form  to  form, 
called  Life,  men,  made  spasmodic  by  perpetual  action, 
had  seized  on  a  certain  moment,  no  more  intrinsically 
notable  than  any  other  moment,  and  had  called 
it  Birth.  This  habit  of  honouring  one  single  instant 
of  the  universal  process  to  the  disadvantage  of  all 
the  other  instants  had  done  more,  perhaps,  than 
anything  to  obfuscate  the  crystal  clearness  of  the 
fundamental  flux.  As  well  might  such  as  watch 
the  process  of  the  green,  unfolding  earth,  emerging 
from  the  brumous  arms  of  winter, 'isolate  a  single  day 
and  call  it  Spring.  In  the  tides  of  rhythm  by  which 
the  change  of  form  to  form  was  governed*  " — Mr. 
Stone's  voice,  which  had  till  then  been  but  a  thin, 
14 


210  Fraternity 

husky  murmur,  gradually  grew  louder  and  louder,  as 
though  he  were  addressing  a  great  concourse—**  'the 
golden  universal  haze  in  which  men  should  have 
flown  like  bright  wing-beats  round  the  sun  gave  place 
to  the  parasitic  halo  which  every  man  derived  from 
the  glorifying  of  his  own  nativity.  To  this  primary 
mistake  could  be  traced  his  intensely  personal 
philosophy.  Slowly  but  surely  there  had  dried  up  in 
his  heart  the  wish  to  be  his  brother.'  '* 

He  stopped  reading  suddenly. 

**I  see  him  coming  in,*'  he  said. 

The  next  minute  the  door  opened,  and  Hilary 
entered. 

**She  has  not  come,'*  said  Mr.  Stone;  and  Bianca 
murmured: 

"We  miss  her!" 

''Her  eyes,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  **have  a  peculiar  look; 
they  help  me  to  see  into  the  future.  I  have  noticed 
the  same  look  in  the  eyes  of  female  dogs." 

With  a  little  laugh,  Bianca  murmured  again: 

"That  is  good!" 

"There  is  one  virtue  in  dogs,"  said  Hilary,  "which 
human  beings  lack— they  are  incapable  of  mockery." 

But  Bianca's  lips,  parted,  indrawn,  seemed  saying: 

"  You  ask  too  much !  I  no  longer  attract  you.  Am 
I  to  sjanpathise  in  the  attraction  this  common  little 
girl  has  for  you?" 

Mr.  Stone's  gaze  was  fixed  intently  on  the  wall. 

"  The  dog,"  he  said,  "  has  lost  much  of  its  primordial 
character." 

And,  moving  to  his  desk,  he  took  up  his  quill  pen. 

Hilary  and  Bianca  made  no  sound,  nor  did  they 
look  at  one  another;  and  in  this  silence,  so  much  more 


^'  Book  of  Universal  Brotherhood  "    2n 

full  of  meaning  than  any  talk,  the  scratching  of  the 
quill  went  on.  Mr.  Stone  put  it  down  at  last,  and, 
seeing  two  persons  in  the  room,  said: 

"Looking  back  at  those  days  when  the  doctrine  of 
evolution  had  reached  its  pinnacle,  one  sees  how  the 
human  mind,  by  its  habit  of  continual  crystallisations, 
had  destroyed  all  the  meaning  of  the  process.  Wit- 
ness, for  example,  that  sterile  phenomenon,  the  pagoda 
of  '  caste ' !  Like  this  Chinese  building,  so  was  Society 
then  formed.  Men  were  living  there  in  layers,  as 
divided  from  each  other,  class  from  class — "  He 
took  up  the  quill,  and  again  began  to  write. 

"You  understand,  I  suppose,*'  said  Hilary  in  a  low 
voice,  "that  she  has  been  told  not  to  come?V! 

Bianca  moved  her  shoulders. 

With  a  most  unwonted  look  of  anger,  he  added: 

"Is  it  within  the  scope  of  your  generosity  to  credit 
me  with  the  desire  to  meet  your  wishes?" 

Bianca's  answer  was  a  laugh  so  strangely  hard,  so 
cruelly  bitter,  that  Hilary  involuntarily  turned,  as 
though  to  retrieve  the  sound  before  it  reached  the  old 
man's  ears. 

Mr.  Stone  had  laid  down  his  pen.  "I  shall  write 
no  more  to-day,"  he  said;  "I  have  lost  my  feeling — 
I  am  not  myself."  He  spoke  in  a  voice  unlike  his 
own. 

Very  tired  and  worn  his  old  figure  looked ;  as  some 
lean  horse,  whose  sim  has  set,  stands  with  drooped 
head,  the  hollows  in  his  neck  showing  under  his 
straggling  mane.  And  suddenly,  evidently  quite  ob- 
livious that  he  had  any  audience,  he  spoke: 

"O  Great  Universe,  I  am  an  old  man  of  a  faint 
spirit,  with  no  singleness  of  purpose.     Help  me  to 


212  Fraternity 

write  on — help  me  to  write  a  book  such  as  the  world 
has  never  seen!*' 

A  dead  silence  followed  that  strange  prayer;  then 
Bianca,  with  tears  rolling  down  her  face,  got  up  and 
rushed  out  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Stone  came  to  himself.  His  mute,  white  face 
had  suddenly  grown  scared  and  pink.  He  looked  at 
Hilary. 

"  I  fear  that  I  forgot  myself.  Have  I  said  any- 
thing peculiar?'* 

Not  feeling  certain  of  his  voice,  Hilary  shook  his 
head,  and  he,  too,  moved  towards  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SHADOWLAND 

*'  C  ACH  of  US  has  a  shadow  in  those  places — in  those 

L/     streets.** 

That  saying  of  Mr.  Stone's,  which — like  so  many  of 
his  sayings — had  travelled  forth  to  beat  the  air,  might 
have  seemed,  even  **in  those  days,**  not  altogether 
without  meaning  to  anyone  who  looked  into  the  room 
of  Mr.  Joshua  Creed  in  Hound  Street. 

This  aged  butler  lay  in  bed  waiting  for  the  inevi- 
table striking  of  a  small  alarum  clock  placed  in  the  very 
centre  of  his  mantelpiece.  Flanking  that  round  and 
ruthless  arbiter,  which  drove  him  day  by  day  to  stand 
up  on  feet  whose  time  had  come  to  rest,  were  the 
eflSgies  of  his  past  triumphs.  On  the  one  hand,  in  a 
papier-m^ch^  frame,  slightly  tinged  with  smuts,  stood  a 
portrait  of  the  **  Honourable  Bateson,  *'  in  the  uniform 
of  his  peculiar  Yeomanry.  Creed*s  former  master's 
face  wore  that  dare-devil  look  with  which  he  had  been 

wont  to  say:  "D n  it.  Creed!  lend  me  a  pound.^ 

I  *ve  got  no  money!'*  On  the  other  hand,  in  a  green 
frame  that  had  once  been  plush,  and  covered  by  a 
glass  with  a  crack  in  the  left-hand  comer,  was  a  por- 
trait of  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Glengower,  as  this 
former  mistress  of  his  appeared,  conceived  by  the 
local  photographer,  laying  the  foundation-stone  of  the 
local  almshouse.  During  the  wreck  of  Creed's  career, 
which,  following  on  a  lengthy  illness,  had  preceded 
his  salvation  by  the  Westminster  Gazette,  these  two 

313 


214  Fraternity 

household  gods  had  lain  at  the  bottom  of  an  old  tin 
trunk,  in  the  possession  of  the  keeper  of  a  lodging- 
house,  waiting  to  be  bailed  out.  The  **  Honourable 
Bateson"  was  now  dead,  nor  had  he  paid  as  yet  the 
pounds  he  had  borrowed.  Lady  Glengower,  too,  was 
in  heaven,  remembering  that  she  had  forgotten  all 
her  servants  in  her  will.  He  who  had  served  them 
was  still  alive,  and  his  first  thought,  when  he  had 
secured  his  post  on  the  *' Westminister j''  was  to  save 
enough  to  rescue  them  from  a  dishonourable  confine- 
ment. It  had  taken  him  six  months.  He  had  found 
them  keeping  company  with  three  pairs  of  woollen 
drawers,  an  old  but  respectable  black  tail-coat;  a 
plaid  cravat;  a  Bible;  four  socks,  two  of  which  had 
toes  and  two  of  which  had  heels ;  some  darning-cotton 
and  a  needle ;  a  pair  of  elastic-sided  boots ;  a  comb  and 
a  sprig  of  white  heather,  wrapped  up  with  a  little 
piece  of  shaving-soap  and  two  pipe- cleaners  in  a  bit 
of  the  Globe  newspaper ;  also  two  collars,  whose  lofty 
points,  separated  by  gaps  of  quite  two  inches,  had 
been  wont  to  reach  their  master*s  gills;  the  small 
alarum  clock  aforesaid;  and  a  tie-pin  formed  in  the 
likeness  of  Queen  Victoria  at  the  date  of  her  first 
Jubilee.  How  many  times  had  he  not  gone  in  thought 
over  those  stores  of  treasure  while  he  was  parted  from 
them!  How  many  times  since  they  had  come  back 
to  him  had  he  not  pondered  with  a  slow  but  deathless 
anger  on  the  absence  of  a  certain  shirt,  which  he  could 
have  sworn  had  been  amongst  them ! 

But  now  he  lay  in  bed  waiting  to  hear  the  clock  go 
off,  with  his  old  bristly  chin  beneath  the  bedclothes, 
and  his  old  discoloured  nose  above.  He  was  thinking 
the  thoughts  which  usually  came  into  his  mind  about 


Shadowland  215 

this  hour — that  Mrs.  Hughs  ought  not  to  scrape  the 
butter  off  his  bread  for  breakfast  in  the  way  she  did; 
that  she  ought  to  take  that  sixpence  off  his  rent ;  that 
the  man  who  brought  his  late  editions  in  the  cart 
ought  to  be  earlier,  letting  **that  man"  get  his  Pell 
Mells  off  before  him,  when  he  himself  would  be  having 
the  one  chance  of  his  day;  that,  sooner  than  pay  the 
ninepence  which  the  bootmaker  had  proposed  to 
charge  for  resoling  him,  he  would  wait  until  the  sum- 
mer came — *' low-class  o'  feller"  as  he  was,  he  *d  be 
glad  enough  to  sole  him  then  for  sixpence ! 

And  the  high-souled  mind,  finding  these  reflections 
sordid,  would  have  thought  otherwise,  perhaps,  had 
it  been  standing  on  those  feet  (now  twitching  all 
by  themselves  beneath  the  bedclothes)  up  to  eleven 
o'clock  the  night  before,  because  there  were  still 
twelve  numbers  of  the  late  edition  that  nobody  would 
buy.  No  one  knew  more  surely  than  Joshua  Creed 
himself  that,  if  he  suffered  himself  to  entertain  any 
large  and  lofty  views  of  life,  he  would  infallibly  find 
himself  in  that  building  to  keep  out  of  which  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  addressing  to  God  his  only  prayer  to 
speak  of.  Forttmately,  from  a  boy  up,  together  with 
a  lengthy,  oblong,  square-jawed  face,  he  had  been 
given  by  Nature  a  single-minded  view  of  life.  In  fact 
the  mysterious,  stout  tenacity  of  a  soul  bom  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Newmarket  could  not  have  been 
done  justice  to  had  he  constitutionally  seen — any 
more  than  Mr.  Stone  himself — two  things  at  a  time. 
The  one  thing  he  had  seen,  for  the  five  years  that 
he  had  now  stood  outside  Messrs.  Rose  and  Thorn's, 
was  the  workhouse;  and,  as  he  was  not  going  there 
so  long  as  he  was  living,  he  attended  carefully  to 


2i6  Fraternity 

all  little  matters    of    expense    in    this    somewhat 
sordid  way. 

While  attending  thus,  he  heard  a  scream.  Having 
by  temperament  considerable  caution,  but  little  fear 
he  waited  till  he  heard  another,  and  then  got  out  of 
bed.  Taking  the  poker  in  his  hand,  and  putting  on 
his  spectacles,  he  hurried  to  the  door.  Many  a  time 
and  oft  in  old  days  had  he  risen  in  this  fashion  to 
defend  the  plate  of  the  '*  Honourable  Bateson'*  and  the 
Dowager  Countess  of  Glengower  from  the  periodical 
attacks  of  his  imagination.  He  stood  with  his  ancient 
nightgown  flapping  round  his  still  more  ancient  legs 
slightly  shivering;  then,  pulling  the  door -^open,  he 
looked  forth.  On  the  stairs  just  above  him  Mrs. 
Hughs,  clasping  her  baby  with  one  arm,  was  holding 
the  other  out  at  full  length  between  herself  and 
Hughs.  He  heard  the  latter  say:  '*  You  Ve  drove  me 
to  it  I  *11  do  a  swing  for  you ! ' '  Mrs.  Hughs 's  thin  body 
brushed  past  into  his  room;  blood  was  dripping  from 
her  wrist.  Creed  saw  that  Hughs  had  his  bayonet  in 
his  hand.  With  all  his  might  he  called  out:  "Ye 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!'*  raising  the  poker 
to  a  position  of  defence.  At  this  moment — more 
really  dangerous  than  any  he  had  ever  known 
— it  was  remarkable  that  he  instinctively  opposed 
to  it  his  most  ordinary  turns  of  speech.  It  was 
as  though  the  extravagance  of  this  un-English 
violence  had  roused  in  him  the  full  measure  of 
a  native  moderation.  The  sight  of  the  naked  steel 
deeply  disgusted  him;  he  uttered  a  long  sentence. 
What  did  Hughs  call  this  —  disgracin*  of  the 
house  at  this  time  in  the  mornin'?  Where  was  he 
brought   up?     Call    'imself   a    soldier,    attackin'    of 


Shadowland  2 17 

old  men  and  women  in  this  way?  He  ought  to 
be  ashamed! 

While  these  words  were  issuing  between  the  yellow 
stumps  of  teeth  in  that  withered  mouth,  Hughs  stood 
silent,  the  back  of  his  arm  covering  his  eyes.  Voices 
and  a  heavy  tread  were  heard.  Distinguishing  in  that 
tread  the  advancing  footsteps  of  the  Law,  Creed  said : 
"You  attack  me  if  you  dare!" 

Hughs  dropped  his  arm.  His  short,  dark  face  had 
a  desperate  look,  as  of  a  caged  rat;  his  eyes  were 
everywhere  at  once. 

**A11  right,  daddy,'*  he  said;  "I  won't  hurt  you. 
She  's  drove  my  head  all  wrong  again.  Catch  hold  o' 
this;  I  can't  trust  myself. "     He  held  out  the  bayonet. 

** Westminister"  took  it  gingerly  in  his  shaking 
hand. 

"To  use  a  thing  like  that ! "  he  said.  **  An'  call  your- 
self an  Englishman!  I  11  ketch  me  death  standin' 
here,  I  will. " 

Hughs  made  no  answer,  leaning  against  the  wall. 
The  old  butler  regarded  him  severely.  He  did  not 
take  a  wide  or  philosophic  view  of  him,  as  a  tortured 
human  being,  driven  by  the  whips  of  passion  in  his 
dark  blood;  a  creature  whose  moral  nature  was  the 
warped,  stunted  tree  his  life  had  made  it;  a  poor  devil 
half  destroyed  by  drink  and  by  his  wound.  The  old 
butler  took  a  more  single-minded  and  old-fashioned 
line.  *'  Ketch  'old  of  'im ! "  he  thought.  *  *  With  these 
low  fellers  there  's  nothin'  else  to  be  done.  Ketch  'old 
of  'im  until  he  squeals. " 

Nodding  his  ancient  head,  he  said: 

"Here's  an  orficer.  I  shan't  speak  for  yer;  you 
deserves  all  you  '11  get,  and  more. " 


2i8  Fraternity 

Later,  dressed  in  an  old  Newmarket  coat,  given  him 
by  some  client,  and  walking  towards  the  police- 
station  alongside  Mrs.  Hughs,  he  was  particularly- 
silent,  presenting  a  front  of  some  austerity,  as  became 
a  man  mixed  up  in  a  low  class  of  incident  like  this. 
And  the  seamstress,  very  thin  and  scared,  with  her 
wounded  wrist  slung  in  a  muffler  of  her  husband's,  and 
carrying  the  baby  on  her  other  arm,  because  the 
morning's  incident  had  upset  the  little  thing,  slipped 
along  beside  him,  glancing  now  and  then  into  his  face. 

Only  once  did  he  speak,  and  to  himself: 

*'I  don't  know  what  they  '11  say  to  me  down  at  the 
orfice,  when  I  go  again — ^missin'  my  day  like  this !  Oh, 
dear,  what  a  misfortune!  What  put  it  into  him  to  go 
on  like  that?'* 

At  this,  which  was  far  from  being  intended  as  en- 
couragement, the  waters  of  speech  broke  up  and 
flowed  from  Mrs.  Hughs.  She  had  only  told  Hughs 
how  that  young  girl  had  gone,  and  left  a  week's  rent, 
with  a  bit  of  writing  to  say  she  was  n't  coming  back ;  it 
was  n't  her  fault  that  she. was  gone — ^that  ought  never 
to  have  come  there  at  all,  a  creature  that  knew  no 
better  than  to  come  between  husband  and  wife.  She 
could  n't  tell  no  more  than  he  could  where  that  young 
girl  had  gone! 

The  tears,  stealing  forth,  chased  each  other  down 
the  seamstress's  thin  cheeks.  Her  face  had  now  but 
little  likeness  to  the  face  with  which  she  had  stood 
confronting  Hughs  when  she  informed  him  of  the 
little  model's  flight.  None  of  the  triumph  which  had 
leaped  out  of  her  bruised  heart,  none  of  the  strident 
malice  with  which  her  voice,  whether  she  would  or  no, 
strove  to  avenge  her  wounded  sense  of  property ;  none 


Shadowland  219 

of  that  unconscious  abnegation,  so  very  near  to 
heroism,  with  which  she  had  rushed  and  caught  up 
her  baby  from  beneath  the  bayonet,  when,  goaded  by 
her  malice  and  triumph,  Hughs  had  rushed  to  seize 
that  weapon.  None  of  all  that,  but,  instead,  a  piti- 
able terror  of  the  ordeal  before  her — a  pitiful,  mute, 
quivering  distress,  that  this  man,  against  whom,  two 
hours  before,  she  had  felt  such  a  store  of  bitter  ran- 
cour, whose  almost  murderous  assault  she  had  so 
narrowly  escaped,  should  now  be  in  this  plight. 

The  sight  of  her  emotion  penetrated  through  his 
spectacles  to  something  lying  deep  in  the  old  butler. 

** Don't  you  take  on,''  he  said;  *'I  '11  stand  by  yer. 
He  shan't  treat  yer  with  impuniness. " 

To  his  uncomplicated  nature  the  affair  was  still  one 
of  tit  for  tat.  Mrs.  Hughs  became  mute  again.  Her 
torn  heart  yearned  to  cancel  the  penalty  that  would 
fall  on  all  of  them,  to  deliver  Hughs  from  the  common 
enemy — ^the  Law;  but  a  queer  feeling  of  pride  and 
bewilderment,  and  a  knowledge,  that,  to  demand  an 
eye  for  an  eye  was  expected  of  all  self-respecting  per- 
sons, kept  her  silent. 

Thus,  then,  they  reached  the  great  consoler,  the 
grey  resolver  of  all  human  tangles,  haven  of  men  and 
angels,  the  police  court.  It  was  situated  in  a  back 
street.  Like  trails  of  ooze,  when  the  tide,  neither 
ebb  nor  flow,  is  leaving  and  making  for  some  estuary, 
trails  of  human  beings  were  moving  to  and  from  it. 
The  faces  of  these  shuffling  * 'shadows'*  wore  a  look  as 
though  masked  with  some  hard  but  threadbare  stuff — 
the  look  of  those  whom  Life  has  squeezed  into  a  last 
resort.  Within  the  porches  lay  a  stagnant  marsh  of 
suppliants,  through  whose  centre  trickled  to  and  fro 


220  Fraternity 

that  stream  of  ooze.  An  old  policeman,  too,  like  some 
grey  lighthouse,  marked  the  entrance  to  the  port  of 
refuge.  Close  to  that  lighthouse  the  old  butler  edged 
his  way.  The  love  of  regularity,  and  of  an  established 
order  of  affairs,  born  in  him  and  fostered  by  a  life 
passed  in  the  service  of  the  **  Honourable  Bateson*' 
and  the  other  gentry,  made  him  cling  instinctively 
to  the  only  person  in  this  crowd  whom  he  could  tell 
for  certain  to  be  on  the  side  of  law  and  order.  Some- 
thing in  his  oblong  face  and  lank,  scanty  hair  parted 
precisely  in  the  middle,  something  in  that  high  collar 
supporting  his  lean  gills,  not  subservient  exactly,  but 
as  it  were  suggesting  that  he  was  in  league  against  all 
this  low-class  of  fellow,  made  the  policeman  say  to 
him: 

**What  's  your  business,  daddy?" 

**0h!"  the  old  butler  answered.  **This  poor  wo- 
man.    I  'm  a  witness  to  her  battery.  '* 

The  policeman  cast  his  not  unkindly  look  over  the 
figure  of  the  seamstress.  **You  stand  here,*'  he  said; 
**  I  11  pass  you  in  directly. " 

And  soon  by  his  offices  the  two  were  passed  into  the 
port  of  refuge. 

They  sat  down  side  by  side  on  the  edge  of  a  long, 
hard,  wooden  bench;  Creed  fixing  his  eyes,  whose 
colour  had  run  into  a  brownish  rim  round  their  cen- 
tres, on  the  magistrate,  as  in  old  days  sun-worshippers 
would  sit  blinking  devoutly  at  the  sun;  and  Mrs. 
Hughs  fixing  her  eyes  on  her  lap,  while  tears  of  agony 
trickled  down  her  face.  On  her  unwounded  arm  the 
baby  slept.  In  front  of  them,  and  unregarded,  filed 
one  by  one  those  shadows  who  had  drunk  the  day 
before  too  deeply  of  the  waters  of  forgetfulness.     To* 


Shadowland  221 

day,  instead,  they  were  to  drink  the  water  of  remem- 
brance, poured  out  for  them  with  no  uncertain  hand. 
And  somewhere  very  far  away,  it  may  have  been  that 
Justice  sat  with  her  ironic  smile  watching  men  judge 
their  shadows.  She  had  watched  them  so  long  about 
that  business.  With  her  elementary  idea  that  hares 
and  tortoises  should  not  be  made  to  start  from  the 
same  mark,  she  had  a  little  given  up  expecting  to  be 
asked  to  come  and  lend  a  hand;  they  had  gone  so  far 
beyond  her.  Perhaps  she  knew,  too,  that  men  no 
longer  punished,  but  now  only  reformed,  their  erring 
brothers,  and  this  made  her  heart  as  light  as  the  hearts 
of  those  who  had  been  in  the  prisons  where  they  were 
no  longer  punished. 

The  old  butler,  however,  was  not  thinking  of  her;  he 
had  thoughts  of  a  simpler  order  in  his  mind.  He  was 
reflecting  that  he  had  once  valeted  the  nephew  of  the 
late  Lord  Justice  Hawthorn,  and  in  the  midst  of  this 
low-class  business  the  reminiscence  brought  him 
refreshment.  Over  and  over  to  himself  he  conned 
these  words:  **I  interpylated  in  between  them,  and  I 
says,  *  Ye  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself ;  call  your- 
self an  Englishman,  I  says,  attackin*  of  old  men  and 
women  with  cold  steel,  I  says!'  "  And  suddenly  he 
saw  that  Hughs  was  in  the  dock. 

The  dark  man  stood  with  his  hands  pressed  to  his 
sides,  as  though  at  attention  on  parade.  A  pale 
profile,  broken  by  a  line  of  black  moustache,  was 
all  ** Westminister"  could  see  of  that  impassive 
face,  whose  eyes,  fixed  on  the  magistrate,  alone 
betrayed  the  fires  within.  The  violent  trem- 
bling of  the  seamstress  roused  in  Joshua  Creed  a 
certain  irritation,  and    seeing  the    baby    open    his 


222  Fraternity 

black  eyes,  he  nudged  her,  whispering:  **  Ye  've  woke 
the  baby!" 

Responding  to  words,  which  alone  perhaps  could 
have  moved  her  at  such  a  moment,  Mrs.  Hughs 
rocked  this  dumb  spectator  of  the  drama.  Again 
the  old  butler  nudged  her. 

**They  want  yer  in  the  box,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Hughs  rose,  and  took  her  place. 

He  who  wished  to  read  the  hearts  of  this  husband 
and  wife  who  stood  at  right  angles,  to  have  their 
wounds  healed  by  Law,  would  have  needed  to  have 
watched  the  hundred  thousand  hours  of  their  wedded 
life,  known  and  heard  the  million  thoughts  and  words 
thought  and  spoken  in  the  dim  spaces  of  their  world, 
to  have  been  cognisant  of  the  million  reasons  why 
they  neither  of  them  felt  that  they  could  have  done 
other  than  they  had  done.  Reading  their  hearts  by 
the  light  of  knowledge  such  as  this,  he  would  not  have 
been  surprised  that,  brought  into  this  place  of  remedy, 
they  seemed  to  enter  into  a  sudden  league.  A  look 
passed  between  them.  It  was  not  friendly,  it  had  no 
appeal ;  but  it  sufficed.  There  seemed  to  be  expressed 
in  it  the  knowledge  bred  by  immemorial  experience 
and  immemorial  time:  This  Law  before  which  we 
stand  was  not  made  by  us!  As  dogs,  when  they  hear 
the  crack  of  a  far  whip,  will  shrink,  and  in  their  whole 
bearing  show  wary  quietude,  so  Hughs  and  Mrs. 
Hughs,  confronted  by  the  questionings  of  Law,  made 
only  such  answers  as  could  be  dragged  from  them. 
In  a  voice  hardly  above  a  whisper  Mrs.  Hughs  told 
her  tale.  They  had  fallen  out.  What  about?  She 
did  not  know.  Had  he  attacked  her?  He  had  had  it 
in  his  hand.     What   then?     She  had  slipped,   and 


Shadowland  223 

hurt  her  wrist  against  the  point.  At  this  statement 
Hughs  turned  his  eyes  on  her,  and  seemed  to  say 
**You  drove  me  to  it;  I  've  got  to  suffer,  for  all  your 
trying  to  get  me  out  of  what  I  Ve  done.  I  gave  you 
one,  and  I  don't  want  your  help.     But  I  *m  glad  you 

stick  to  me  against  this ^LawT'     Then,  lowering 

his  eyes,  he  stood  motionless  during  her  breathless 
little  outburst.  He  was  her  husband ;  she  had  borne 
him  five;  he  had  been  wounded  in  the  war.  She  had 
never  wanted  him  brought  here. 

No  mention  of  the  little  model.  .  .  . 

The  old  butler  dwelt  on  this  reticence  of  Mrs.  Hughs, 
when,  two  hours  afterwards,  in  pursuance  of  his  in- 
stinctive reliance  on  the  gentry,  he  called  on  Hilary. 

The  latter,  surrounded  by  books  and  papers — ^for, 
since  his  dismissal  of  the  girl,  he  had  worked  with 
great  activity — ^was  partaking  of  lunch,  served  to  him 
in  his  study  on  a  tray. 

** There  's  an  old  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir;  he  says 
you  know  him;  his  name  is  Creed.'* 

**Show  him  in,''  said  Hilary. 

Appearing  suddenly  from  behind  the  servant  in  the 
doorway,  the  old  butler  came  in  at  a  stealthy  amble ; 
he  looked  round,  and,  seeing  a  chair,  placed  his  hat 
beneath  it,  then  advanced,  with  nose  and  spectacles 
upturned  to  Hilary.  Catching  sight  of  the  tray,  he 
stopped,  checked  in  an  evident  desire  to  communicate 
his  soul. 

**0h,  dear,  "he  said,  **I  'm  intrudin'  on  your  lunch- 
eon.    I  can  wait;  I  '11  go  and  sit  in  the  passage. " 

Hilary,  however,  shook  his  hand,  faded  now  to  skin 
and  bone,  and  motioned  him  to  a  chair. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  it,  and  again  said: 


2  24  Fraternity 


**I  'm  intrudin*  on  yer. " 

**Not  at  all.     Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

Creed  took  off  his  spectacles,  wiped  them  to  help 
himself  to  see  more  clearly  what  he  had  to  say,  and  put 
them  on  again. 

*'It  's  a-concerning  of  these  domestic  matters,"  he 
said.  **I  come  up  to  tell  yer,  knowing  as  you  're  in- 
terested in  this  family. " 

"Well,"  said  Hilary.     '*What  has  happened?" 

"It 's  along  of  the  young  girl's  having  left  them,  as 
you  may  know." 

"Ah!" 

"It 's  brought  things  to  a  crisax,"  explained  Creed. 

"Indeed,  how's  that?" 

The  old  butler  related  the  facts  of  the  assault.  "I 
took  'is  bayonet  away  from  him,"  he  ended;  "he 
did  n't  frighten  me, " 

"  Is  he  out  of  his  mind  ? "  asked  Hilary. 

"I  've  no  conscience  of  it, "  replied  Creed;  "his  wife 
she  's  gone  the  wrong  way  to  work  with  him,  in  my 
opinion,  but  that  *s  particular  to  women.  She 's 
a-goaded  of  him  respecting  a  certain  party.  I  don't 
say  but  what  that  young  girl's  no  better  than  what  she 
ought  to  be;  look  at  her  profession,  and  her  a  country 
girl,  too !  She  must  be  what  she  ought  n't  to.  But  he 
ain't  the  sort  o'  man  you  can  treat  like  that.  You 
can't  get  thorns  from  figs;  you  can't  expect  it  from  the 
lower  orders.  They  only  give  him  a  month,  con- 
siderin'  of  him  bein'  wounded  in  the  war.  It  'd  been 
more  if  they  'd  a-known  he  was  a-hankerin'  after  that 
young  girl — a  married  man  like  him;  don't  ye  think 
so,  sir?" 

Hilary's  face  had  assumed  its  retired  expression. 


Shadowland  225 

**  I  cannot  go  into  that  with  you,"  it  seemed  to  say. 

Quick  to  see  the  change,  Creed  rose.  "But  I  'm 
intrudin*  on  your  dinner, "  he  said — '*  your  luncheon,  I 
should  say.  The  woman  goes  on  irritatin*  of  him,  but 
he  must  expect  of  that,  she  bein'  his  wife.  But  what 
a  misfortune!  He  '11  be  back  again  in  no  time,  and 
what  '11  happen  then?  It  won't  improve  him  shut  up 
in  one  of  them  low  prisons!"  Then,  raising  his  old 
face  to  Hilary:  "Oh,  dear!  It  's  like  a-walkin*  on  a 
black  night,  when  ye  can't  see  your  'and  before  yer." 

Hilary  was  unable  to  find  a  suitable  answer  to  this 
simile. 

The  impression  made  on  him  by  the  old  butler's 
recital  was  queerly  twofold;  his  more  fastidious  side 
felt  distinct  relief  that  he  had  severed  connection  with 
an  episode  capable  of  developments  so  sordid  and  con- 
spicuous. But  all  the  side  of  him — and  Hilary  was  a 
complicated  product — which  felt  compassion  for  the 
helpless,  his  suppressed  chivalry,  in  fact,  had  also 
received  its  fillip.  The  old  butler's  references  to  the 
girl  showed  clearly  how  the  hands  of  all  men  and 
women  were  against  her.  She  was  that  pariah,  a 
young  girl  without  property  or  friends,  spiritually 
soft,  physically  alluring. 

To  recompense  "Westminister"  for  the  loss  of  his 
day's  work,  to  make  a  dubious  statement  that  nights 
were  never  so  black  as  they  appeared  to  be,  was  all 
that  he  could  venture  to  do.  Creed  hesitated  in  the 
doorway. 

"Oh,  dear,"  he  said,  "there  's  a-one thing  that  the 
women  was  a-saying  that  I  Ve  forgot  to  tell  you.  It  's 
a-concemin'  of  what  this  'ere  man  was  boastin'  in  his 
rage.     *  Let  them, '  he  says,  *  as  is  responsive  for  the 


2  26  Fraternity 

movin'  of  her  look  out/  he  says;   'I  ain't  done  with 
them. '     That  's  conspiracy,  I  should  think!  *' 

Smiling  away  this  diagnosis  of  Hughs's  words,  Hil- 
ary shook  the  old  man's  withered  hand,  and  closed  the 
door.  Sitting  down  again  at  his  writing-table,  he 
buried  himself  almost  angrily  in  his  work.  But  the 
queer,  half-pleasurable,  fevered  feeling,  which  had 
been  his,  since  the  night  he  walked  down  Piccad^lly^ 
and  met  the  image  of  the  little  model,  was  unfavour- 
able  to  the  austere  process  of  his  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MR.  STONE  IN  WAITING 


THAT  same  afternoon,  while  Mr.  Stone  was  writ- 
ing, he  heard  a  voice  saying: 
"  Dad,  stop   writing  just  a  minute,  and  talk  to 


me." 


Recognition  came  into  his  eyes.  It  was  his  younger 
daughter. 

"My  dear,'*  he  said,  "are  you  unwell?" 

Keeping  his  hand,  fragile  and  veined  and  chill, 
under  her  own  warm  grasp,  Bianca  answered: 
"  Lonely." 

Mr.  Stone  looked  straight  before  him. 

"Loneliness,''  he  said,  "is  man's  chief  fault";  and 
seeing  his  pen  lying  on  the  desk,  he  tried  to  lift  his 
hand.  Bianca  held  it  down.  At  that  hot  clasp  some- 
thing seemed  to  stir  in  Mr.  Stone.  His  cheeks  grew 
pink. 

"  Kiss  me.  Dad. " 

Mr.  Stone  hesitated.  Then  his  lips  resolutely 
touched  her  eye.  "It  is  wet,"  he  said.  He  seemed 
for  a  moment  struggling  to  grasp  the  meaning  of 
moisture  in  connection  with  the  human  eye.  Soon 
his  face  again  became  serene.  "The  heart,"  he  said, 
"is  a  dark  well;  its  depth  unknown.  I  have  lived 
eighty  years.     I  am  still  drawing  water. " 

" Draw  a  little  for  me,  Dad." 

This  time  Mr.  Stone  looked  at  his  daughter  anx« 

227 


228  Fraternity 

lously,  and  suddenly  spoke,  as  if  afraid  that  if  he 
waited  he  might  forget. 

"You  are  unhappy!'* 

Bianca  put  her  face  down  to  his  tweed  sleeve. 
"How  nice  your  coat  smells!**  she  murmured. 

"You  are  unhappy,*'  repeated  Mr.  Stone. 

Bianca,  dropped  his  hand,  and  moved  away. 

Mr.  Stone  followed  her.  "Why?**  he  said.  Then, 
grasping  his  brow,  he  added:  "  If  it  would  do  you  any 
good,  my  dear,  to  hear  a  page  or  two,  I  could  read  to 
you.** 

Bianca  shook  her  head. 

"No;  talk  to  me!** 

Mr.  Stone  answered  simply:  "I  have  forgotten." 

"You  talk  to  that  little  girl,"  murmured  Bianca. 

Mr.  Stone  seemed  to  lose  himself  in  reverie. 

"  If  that  is  true,  **  he  said,  following  out  his  thoughts, 
"it  must  be  due  to  the  sex  instinct  not  yet  quite 
extinct.  It  is  stated  that  the  blackcock  will  dance 
before  his  females  to  a  great  age,  though  I  have  never 
seen  it." 

"If  you  dance  before  her/*  said  Bianca,  with  her 
face  averted,  "can*t  you  even  talk  to  me?*' 

"  I  do  not  dance,  my  dear, "  said  Mr.  Stone;  "  I  will 
do  my  best  to  talk  to  you.  *' 

There  was  a  silence,  and  he  began  to  pace  the  room. 
Bianca,  by  the  empty  fireplace,  watched  a  shower  of 
rain  driving  past  the  open  window. 

"This  is  the  time  of  year,**  said  Mr.  Stone  sud- 
denly, "  when  lambs  leap  off  the  ground  with  all  four 
legs  at  a  time.**  He  paused  as  though  for  an  an- 
swer; then,  out  of  the  silence,  his  voice  rose  again — ^it 
sounded  different:  "There  is  nothing  in  Nature  more 


Mr.  Stone  in  Waiting  229 

symptomatic  of  that  principle  which  should  underlie 
all  life.  Live  in  the  future;  regret  nothing;  leap!  A 
lamb  that  has  left  earth  with  all  four  legs  at  once  is 
the  symbol  of  true  life.  That  she  must  come  down 
again  is  but  an  inevitable  accident.  *  In  those  days 
men  were  living  on  their  pasts.  They  leaped  with 
one,  or,  at  the  most,  two  legs  at  a  time;  they  never 
left  the  ground,  or  in  leaving,  they  wished  to  know  the 
reason  why.  It  was  this  paralysis*  '* — Mr.  Stone  did 
not  pause,  but,  finding  himself  close  beside  his  desk, 
took  up  his  pen — "  *it  was  this  paralysis  of  the 
leaping  nerve  which  undermined  their  progress. 
Instead  of  millions  of  leaping  lambs,  ignorant  of  why 
they  leaped,  they  were  a  flock  of  sheep  lifting  up  one 
leg  and  asking  whether  it  was  or  was  not  worth  their 
while  to  lift  another.'  " 

The  words  were  followed  by  a  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  scratching  of  the  quill  with  which  Mr.  Stone 
was  writing. 

Having  finished,  he  again  began  to  pace  the  room, 
and  coming  suddenly  on  his  daughter,  stopped  short. 
Touching  her  shoulder  timidly,  he  said:  **I  was 
talking  to  you,  I  think,  my  dear;  where  were 
we?'* 

Bianca  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  hand. 

"In  the  air,  I  think." 

"Yes,  yes,'*  said  Mr.  Stone,  "I  remember.    You 
must  not  let  me  wander  from  the  point  again.  ** 
No,  dear.'* 

Lambs,**  said  Mr.  Stone,  "remind  me  at  times  of 
that  young  girl  who  comes  to  copy  for  me.  I  make 
her  skip  to  promote  her  circulation  before  tea.  I 
myself  do  this  exercise.'*     Leaning  against  the  wall. 


<< 


230  Fraternity 

with  his  feet  twelve  inches  from  it,  he  rose  slowly  on 
his  toes.  **Do  you  know  that  exercise?  It  is  ex- 
cellent for  the  calves  of  the  legs,  and  for  the  lumbar 
regions."  So  saying,  Mr.  Stone  left  the  wall,  and 
began  again  to  pace  the  room;  the  whitewash  had 
also  left  the  wall,  and  clung  in  a  large  square  patch  on 
his  shaggy  coat. 

**I  have  seen  sheep  in  Spring,**  he  said,  "actually 
imitate  their  lambs  in  rising  from  the  ground  with  all 
four  legs  at  once.*'  He  stood  still.  A  thought  had 
evidently  struck  him. 

*'If  Life  is  not  all  Spring,  it^is  of  no  value 
whatsoever;  better  to  die,  and  to  begin  again. 
Life  is  a  tree  putting  on  a  new  green  gown ;  it  is  a 
young  moon  rising — no,  that  is  not  so;  we  do  not 
see  the  young  moon  rising— it  is  a  young  moon 
setting,  never  younger  than  when  we  are  about 
to  die '* 

Bianca  cried  out  sharply:  "Don't,  Father!  Don't 
talk  like  that;  it  's  so  untrue!  Life  is  all  Autumn,  it 
seems  to  me!" 

Mr.  Stone's  eyes  grew  very  blue. 

"That  is  a  foul  heresy,"  he  stammered;  I  cannot 
listen  to  it.  Life  is  the  cuckoo's  song;  it  is  a  hill-side 
bursting  into  leaf ;  it  is  the  wind ;  I  feel  it  in  me  every 
day!" 

He  was  trembling  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind  he  spoke  of, 
and  Bianca  moved  hastily  towards  him,  holding  out 
her  arms.  Suddenly  his  lips  began  to  move;  she 
heard  him  mutter:  "I  have  lost  force;  I  will  boil 
some  milk.  I  must  be  ready  when  she  comes." 
And  at  those  words  her  heart  felt  like  a  lump  of 
ice. 


Mr-  Stone  in  Waiting  231 

Always  that  girl!  And  without  again  attracting 
his  attention  she  went  away.  As  she  passed  out 
through  the  garden  she  saw  him  at  the  window  hold- 
ing a  cup  of  milk,  from  which  the  steam  was  rising. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THIRD  PILGRIMAGE  TO  HOUND  STREET 

LIKE  water,  human  character  will  find  its  level ;  and 
Nature,  with  her  way  of  fitting  men  to  their 
environment,  had  made  young  Martin  Stone  what 
Stephen  called  a  **Sanitist. "  There  had  been  noth- 
ing else  for  her  to  do  with  him. 

This  young  man  had  come  into  the  social  scheme  at 
a  moment  when  the  conception  of  existence  as  a  pre- 
sent life  corrected  by  a  life  to  come  was  tottering ;  and 
the  conception  of  the  world  as  an  upper-class  pre- 
serve somewhat  seriously  disturbed. 

Losing  his  father  and  mother  at  an  early  age,  and 
brought  up  till  he  was  fourteen  by  Mr.  Stone,  he  had 
formed  the  habit  of  thinking  for  himself.  This  had 
rendered  him  unpopular,  and  added  force  to  the  es- 
sential single-heartedness  transmitted  to  him  through 
his  grandfather.  A  particular  aversion  to  the  sights 
and  scents  of  suffering,  which  had  caused  him  as  a 
child  to  object  to  killing  flies,  and  to  watching  rabbits 
caught  In  traps,  had  been  regulated  by  his  training  as 
a  doctor.  His  fleshly  horror  of  pain  and  ugliness  was 
now  disciplined,  his  spiritual  dislike  of  them  forced 
into  a  philosophy.  The  peculiar  chaos  surrounding 
all  young  men  who  live  in  large  towns  and  think  at 
all  had  made  him  gradually  reject  all  abstract  specu- 
lation ;  but  a  certain  fire  of  aspiration  coming,  we  may 

suppose,   through   Mr.    Stone,   had  nevertheless  im- 

232 


Third  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street    233 

pelled  him  to  embrace  something  with  all  his  might. 
He  had  therefore  embraced  health.  And  living, 
as  he  did,  in  the  Euston  Road,  to  be  in  touch  with 
things,  he  had  every  need  of  the  health  which  he 
embraced. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  when  Hughs  had 
committed  his  assault,  having  three  hours  of  respite 
from  his  hospital,  Martin  dipped  his  face  and  head 
into  cold  water,  rubbed  them  with  a  corrugated  towel, 
put  on  a  hard  bowser  hat,  took  a  thick  stick  in  his 
hand,  and  went  by  Underground  to  Kensington. 

With  his  usual  cool,  high-handed  air  he  entered  his 
aunt's  house,  and  asked  for  Thyme.  Faithful  to  his 
definite,  if  somewhat  crude,  theory  that  Stephen  and 
Cecilia  and  all  their  sort  were  amateurs,  he  never 
inquired  for  them,  though  not  unfrequently  he  would, 
while  waiting,  stroll  into  Cecilia's  drawing-room,  and 
let  his  sarcastic  glance  sweep  over  the  pretty  things 
she  had  collected,  or,  lounging  in  some  luxurious  chair, 
cross  his  long  legs,  and  fix  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling. 

Thyme  soon  came  down.  She  wore  a  blouse  of 
some  blue  stuff  bought  by  Cecilia  for  the  relief  of 
people  in  the  Balkan  States,  a  skirt  of  purplish  tweed 
woven  by  Irish  gentlewomen  in  distress,  and  held  in 
her  hand  an  open  envelope  addressed  in  Cecilia's 
writing  to  Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace. 

"Hallo!"  she  said. 

Martin  answered  by  a  look  that  took  her  in  from 
head  to  foot. 

•'Get  on  a  hat!    I  haven't  got  much  time.     That 
blue  thing  's  new. " 
.  "It  's  pure  flax.     Mother  bought  it. *' 

**  It 's  rather  decent.     Hurry  up  T ! 


234  Fraternity 

Thyme  raised  her  chin ;  that  lazy  movement  showed 
her  round,  creamy  neck  in  all  its  beauty. 

" I  feel  rather  slack,  **  she  said ;  ''besides,  I  must  get 
back  to  dinner,  Martin.** 

''Dinner!** 

Thyme  turned  quickly  to  the  door.  "Oh,  well, 
I  '11  come,"  and  ran  up-stairs. 

When  they  had  purchased  a  postal  order  for  ten 
shillings,  placed  it  in  the  envelope  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Tallents  Smallpeace,  and  passed  the  himdred  doors  of 
Messrs.  Rose  and  Thorn,  Martin  said:  "I  *m  going  to 
see  what  that  precious  amateur  has  done  about  the 
baby.  If  he  has  n't  moved  the  girl,  I  expect  to  find 
things  in  a  pretty  mess.  '* 

Thyme's  face  changed  at  once. 

"Just  remember,"  she  said,  "that  I  don*t  want  to 
go  there.  I  don't  see  the  good,  when  there  *s  such  a 
tremendous  lot  waiting  to  be  done. " 

** Every  other  case,  except  the  one  in  hand!" 

"It  *s  not  my  case.  You  're  so  disgustingly  unfair, 
Martin.     I  don't  like  those  people.  ** 

"Oh,  you  amateur!" 

Thyme  flushed  crimson.  "Look  here!"  she  said, 
speaking  with  dignity,  "I  don't  care  what  you  call  me, 
but  I  won't  have  you  call  Uncle  Hilary  an  amateur. "' 

"What  is  he,  then?'*  . 

"I  like  him." 

"That 's  conclusive/' 

"Yes,  it  is." 

Martin  did  not  reply,  looking  sideways  at  Thyme 
with  his  queer,  protective  smile.  They  were  passing 
through  a  street  superior  to  Hound  Street  in  its  pre- 
tensions to  be  called  a  slum. 


Third  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street    235 

"  Look  here ! "  he  said  suddenly ; ''  a  man  like  Hilary's 
interest  in  all  this  sort  of  thing  is  simply  sentimental. 
It  's  on  his  nerves.     He  takes  philanthropy  just  as 
he  'd  take  sul phonal  for  sleeplessness." 

Thyme  looked  shrewdly  up  at  him. 

**  Well,'*  she  said,  **it  's  just  as  much  on  your  nerves. 
You  see  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  health ;  he  sees  it 
from  the  point  of  view  of  sentiment,  that  's  all.  '* 

"Oh!  you  think  so?" 

"You  just  treat  all  these  people  as  if  they  were  in 
hospital.'* 

The  young  man  's  nostrils  quivered.  **Well,  and 
how  should  they  be  treated?" 

"How  would  you  like  to  be  looked  at  as  a  'case'?" 
muttered  Thyme. 

Martin  moved  his  hand  in  a  slow  half-circle. 

"These  houses  and  these  people,"  he  said,  "are 
in  the  way — in  the  way  of  you  and  me,  and 
everyone." 

Thyme's  eyes  followed  that  slow,  sweeping  move- 
ment of  her  cousin's  hand.  It  seemed  to  fascinate 
her. 

"Yes,  of  course;  I  know,"  she  murmured.  "Some- 
thing must  be  done!" 

And  she  reared  her  head  up,  looking  from  side  to 
side,  as  if  to  show  him  that  she,  too,  could  sweep  away 
things.  Very  straight,  and  solid,  fair,  and  fresh,  she 
looked  just  then. 

Thus,  in  the  hypnotic  silence  of  high  thoughts,  the 
two  young  "Sanitists"  arrived  in  Hound  Street. 

In  the  doorway  of  No.  i  the  son  of  the  lame 
woman,  Mrs.  Budgen — the  thin,  white  youth  as  tall  as 
Martin,  but  not  so  broad — stood,  smoking  a  dubious- 


236  Fraternity 

looking  cigarette.     He  turned  his  lack-lustre,  jeering 
gaze  on  the  visitors. 

"Who  d'  you  want?"  he  said.  "If  it  's  the  girl, 
she  's  gone  away,  and  left  no  address.  *' 

**I  want  Mrs.  Hughs, ''  said  Martin. 

The  young  man  coughed.  **Right-o!  You  '11  find 
her  but  for  him,  apply  Wormwood  Scrubs. " 

"Prison!     What  for?" 

"Stickin'  her  through  the  wrist  with  his  bayonet"; 
and  the  young  man  let  a  long,  luxurious  fume  of  smoke 
trickle  through  his  nose. 

"How  horrible!"  said  Thyme. 

Martin  regarded  the  young  man,  unmoved.  "That 
stuff  you  're  smoking  's  rank,"  he  said.  "Have  some 
of  mine ;  I  '11  show  you  how  to  make  them.  It  '11  save 
you  one  and  three  per  pound  of  baccy,  and  won't  rot 
your  lungs. " 

Taking  out  his  pouch,  he  rolled  a  cigarette.  The 
white  young  man  bent  his  dull  wink  on  Thyme,  who, 
wrinkling  her  nose,  was  pretending  to  be  far  away. 

Mounting  the  narrow  stairs  that  smelt  of  walls  and 
washing  and  red  herrings,  Thyme  spoke:  "Now,  you 
see,  it  was  n't  so  simple  as  you  thought.  I  don't 
want  to  go  up;  I  don't  want  to  see  her.  I  shall  wait 
for  you  here.  "  She  took  her  stand  in  the  open  door- 
way of  the  little  model's  empty  room.  Martin 
ascended  to  the  second  floor. 

There,  in  the  front  room,  Mrs.  Hughs  was  seen 
standing  with  the  baby  in  her  arms  beside  the  bed. 
She  had  a  frightened  and  uncertain  air.  After  ex- 
amining her  wrist,  and  pronouncing  it  a  scratch, 
Martin  looked  long  at  the  baby.  The  little  creature's 
toes  were  stiffened  against  its  mother's  waist,  its  eyes 


Third  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street    237 

closed,  its  tiny  fingers  crisped  against  her  breast. 
While  Mrs.  Hughs  poured  forth  her  tale,  Martin  stood 
with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  baby.  It  could  not 
be  gathered  from  his  face  what  he  was  thinking,  but 
now  and  then  he  moved  his  jaw,  as  though  he  were 
suffering  from  toothache.  In  truth,  by  the  look  of 
Mrs.  Hughs  and  her  baby,  his  recipe  did  not  seem  to 
have  achieved  conspicuous  success.  He  turned  away 
at  last  from  the  trembling,  nerveless  figure  of  the 
seamstress,  and  went  to  the  window.  Two  pale 
hyacinth  plants  stood  on  the  inner  edge ;  their  perfume 
penetrated  through  the  other  savours  of  the  room — 
and  very  strange  they  looked,  those  twin,  starved 
children  of  the  light  and  air. 

*'  These  are  new, ' '  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  murmured  Mrs.  Hughs.  "I  brought 
them  upstairs.  I  eiid  n't  like  to  see  the  poor  things 
left  to  die." 

From  the  bitter  accent  of  these  w^ords  Martin  under- 
stood that  they  had  been  the  little  model's. 

**  Put  them  outside, "  he  said ;  **  they  '11  never  live  in 
here.  They  want  watering,  too.  Where  are  your 
saucers  ? '  * 

Mrs.  Hughs  laid  the  baby  down,  and,  going  to  the 
cupboard  where  all  the  household  gods  were  kept, 
brought  out  two  old,  dirty  saucers.  Martin  raised  the 
plants,  and  as  he  held  them,  from  one  close,  yellow 
petal  there  rose  up  a  tiny  caterpillar.  It  reared  a 
green,  transparent  body,  feeling  its  way  to  a  new 
resting-place.  The  little  writhing  shape  seemed,  like 
the  wonder  and  the  mystery  of  life,  to  mock  the  young 
doctor,  who  watched  it  with  eyebrows  raised,  having 
no  hand  at  liberty  to  remove  it  from  the  plant. 


238  Fraternity 

**She  came  from  the  country.  There  *s  plenty  of 
men  there  for  her!" 

Martin  put  the  plants  down,  and  turned  round  to 
the  seamstress. 

*'Look  here!'*  he  said,  **it  's  no  good  crying  over 
spilt  milk.  What  you  've  got  to  do  is  to  set  to  and 
get  some  work. ' ' 

"Yes,  sir.'* 

** Don't  say  it  in  that  sort  of  way,'!  said  Martin; 
**you  must  rise  to  the  occasion. " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  You  want  a  tonic.  Take  this  half-crown,  and  get 
in  a  dozen  pints  of  stout,  and  drink  one  every  day. " 

And  again  Mrs.  Hughs  said,  "Yes,  sir." 

"And  about  that  baby." 

Motionless,  where  it  had  been  placed  against  the 
foot -rail  of  the  bed,  the  baby  sat  with  its  black  eyes 
closed.  The  small  grey  face  was  curled  down  on  the 
bundle  of  its  garments. 

"It's  a  silent  gentleman,"  Martin  muttered. 

"  It  never  was  a  one  to  cry, "  said  Mrs.  Hughs. 

"  That  *s  lucky,  anyway.  When  did  you  feed  it 
last?" 

Mrs.  Hughs  did  not  reply  at  first.  "About  half- 
past  six  last  evening,  sir. " 

"What?" 

"  It  slept  all  night;  but  to-day,  of  course,  I  've  been 
all  torn  to  pieces;  my  milk  's  gone.  I  've  tried  it  with 
the  bottle,  but  it  would  n't  take  it. " 

Martin  bent  down  to  the  baby's  face,  and  put  his 
finger  on  its  chin;  bending  lower  yet,  he  raised  the 
eyelid  of  the  tiny  eye. 

"It's  dead,"  he  said. 


Third  Pilgrimage  to  Hound  Street    239 

At  the  word  *'dead'*  Mrs.  Hughs,  stooping  behind 
him,  snatched  the  baby  to  her  throat.  With  its 
drooping  head  close  to  her  face,  she  clutched  and 
locked  it  without  sound.  Full  five  minutes  this 
desperate  mute  struggle  with  eternal  silence  lasted — 
the  feeling,  and  warming,  and  breathing  on  the  little 
limbs.  Then,  sitting  down,  bent  almost  double  over 
her  baby,  she  moaned.  That  single  sound  was  fol- 
lowed by  utter  silence.  The  tread  of  footsteps  on 
the  creaking  stairs  broke  it.  Martin,  rising  from 
his  crouching  posture  by  the  bed,  went  towards  the 
door. 

His  grandfather  was  standing  there,  with  Thyme 
behind  him. 

"  She  has  left  her  room, "  said  Mr.  Stone.  "Where 
has  she  gone?*' 

Martin,  understanding  that  he  meant  the  little 
model,  put  his  finger  to  his  lips,  and,  pointing  to  Mrs. 
Hughs,  whispered: 

"This  woman's  baby  has  just  died." 

Mr.  Stone's  face  underwent  the  queer  discoloration 
that  marked  the  sudden  summoning  of  his  far 
thoughts.  He  stepped  past  Martin,  and  went  up  to 
Mrs.  Hughs. 

He  stood  there  a  long  time  gazing  at  the  baby,  and 
at  the  dark  head  bending  over  it  with  such  despair. 
At  last  he  spoke : 

"  Poor  woman!     He  is  at  peace.'* 

Mrs.  Hughs  looked  up,  and,  seeing  that  old  face, 
with  its  hollows  and  thin,  silver  hair,  she  spoke: 

"He's  dead,  sir." 

Mr.  Stone  put  out  his  veined  and  fragile  hand,  and 
touched  the  baby's  toes.     "He  is  flying;  he  is  every- 


2  40  Fraternity 

where;  he  is  close  to  the  sun — Little  brother!"  And 
turning  on  his  heel,  he  went  out. 

Thyme  followed  him  as  he  walked  on  tiptoe  down- 
stairs that  seemed  to  creak  the  louder  for  his  caution. 
Tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

Martin  sat  on,  with  the  mother  and  her  baby,  in  the 
close,  still  room,  where,  like  strange  visiting  spirits, 
came  stealing  whiffs  of  the  perfume  of  hyacinths. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
Stephen's  private  life 

MR.  STONE  and  Thyme,  in  coming  out,  again 
passed  the  tall,  white  young  man.  He  had 
thrown  away  the  hand-made  cigarette,  finding  that 
it  had  not  enough  saltpetre  to  make  it  draw,  and  was 
smoking  one  more  suited  to  the  action  of  his  lungs. 
He  directed  towards  them  the  same  lack-lustre,  jeering 
stare. 

Unconscious,  seemingly,  of  where  he  went,  Mr. 
Stone  walked  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  space.  His  head 
jerked  now  and  then,  as  a  dried  flower  will  shiver  in  a 
draught. 

Scared  at  these  movements,  Thyme  took  his  arm. 
The  touch  of  that  soft  young  arm  squeezing  his  own 
brought  speech  back  to  Mr.  Stone. 

"In  those  places  .  .  .'*  he  said,  "in  those  streets! 
...  I  shall  not  see  the  flowering  of  the  aloe — I  shall 
not  see  the  living  peace!  'As  with  dogs,  each 
couched  over  his  proper  bone,  so  men  were  living 
then!  **'     He  sank  back  into  silence. 

Thyme,  watching  him  askance,  pressed  still  closer 
to  his  side,  as  though  to  try  and  warm  him  back  to 
everyday. 

"Oh!"  went  her  fluttered  thoughts.  "I  do  wish 
grandfather  would  say  something  one  could  un- 
derstand. I  wish  he  would  lose  that  dreadful 
stare. " 

16 


242  Fraternity 

Mr.  Stone  spoke  in  answer  to  his  grand-daughter's 
thoughts, 

"  I  have  seen  a  vision  of  fraternity.  A  barren  hill- 
side in  the  sun,  and  on  it  a  man  of  stone  talking  to  the 
wind.  I  have  heard  an  owl  hooting  in  the  daj^imc; 
a  cuckoo  singing  in  the  night. " 

'* Grandfather,  grandfather!*' 

To  that  appeal  Mr.  Stone  responded:  "Yes,  what  is 
it?" 

But  Thyme,  thus  challenged,  knew  not  what  to  say, 
having  spoken  out  of  terror. 

"  If  the  poor  baby  had  lived,  *'  she  stammered  out, 
"it  would  have  grown  up.  ...  It 's  all  for  the  best, 
isn't  it?" 

"Everything  is  for  the  best,"  said  Mr.  Stone, 
** '  In  those  days  men,  possessed  by  thoughts  of 
individual  life,  made  moan  at  death,  careless  of  the 
great  truth  that  the  world  was  one  unending  song.'*' 

Thyme  thought :  "  I  have  never  seen  him  as  bad  as 
this!"  She  drew  him  on  more  quickly.  With  deep 
relief  she  saw  her  father,  latch-key  in  hand,  turning 
into  the  Old  Square. 

Stephen,  who  was  still  walking  with  his  springy 
step,  though  he  had  come  on  foot  the  whole  way  from 
the  Temple,  hailed  them  with  his  hat.  It  was  tall  and 
black,  and  very  shiny,  neither  quite  oval  nor  posi- 
tively round,  and  had  a  little  curly  brim.  In  this  and 
his  black  coat,  cut  so  as  to  show  the  front  of  hini  and 
cover  the  behind,  he  looked  his  best.  The  costume 
suited  his  long,  rather  narrow,  face,  corrugated  by  two 
short  parallel  lines  slanting  downwards  from  his  eyes 
and  nostrils  on  either  cheek;  suited  his  neat,  thin 
figure  and  the  close-lipped  comers  of  his  mouth.     His 


Stephen's  Private  Life  243 

permanent  appointment  in  the  world  of  Law  had 
ousted  from  his  life  (together  with  all  tmcertainty  of 
income)  the  need  for  putting  on  a  wig  and  taking  his 
moustache  off;  but  he  still  preferred  to  go  clean- 
shaved. 

"Where  have  you  two  sprung  from?'*  he  inquired, 
admitting  them  into  the  hall. 

Mr.  Stone  gave  him  no  answer,  but  passed  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  sat  down  on  the  verge  of  the  first 
chair  he  came  across,  leaning  forward  with  his  hands 
between  his  knees. 

Stephen,  after  one  dry  glance  at  him,  turned  to  his 
daughter. 

"  My  child,  **  he  said  softly,  "  what  have  you  brought 
the  old  boy  here  for?  If  there  happens  to  be  any- 
thing of  the  high  mammalian  order  for  dinner,  your 
mother  will  have  a  fit. " 

Thyme  answered:  "Don't  chaff,  father!" 

Stephen,  who  was  very  fond  of  her,  saw  that  for 
some  reason  she  was  not  herself.  He  examined  her 
with  unwonted  gravity.  Thyme  turned  away  from 
him.     He  heard,  to  his  alarm,  a  little  gulping  sound. 

"My  dear!'*  he  said. 

Conscious  of  her  sentimental  weakness,  Thyme 
made  a  violent  effort. 

"  I  Ve  seen  a  baby  dead, "  she  cried  in  a  quick,  hard 
voice;  and,  without  another  word,  she  ran  upstairs. 

In  Stephen  there  was  a  horror  of  emotion  that 
amounted  almost  to  disease.  It  would  have  been 
difiScult  to  say  when  he  had  last  shown  emotion;  per- 
haps not  since  Thyme  was  bom,  and  even  then  not  to 
anyone  except  himself,  having  first  locked  the  door, 
and  then  walked  up  and  down,  with  his  teeth  almost 


2  44  Fraternity 

meeting  in  the  mouthpiece  of  his  favourite  pipe.  He 
was  unaccustomed,  too,  to  witness  this  weakness  on 
the  part  of  other  people.  His  looks  and  speech 'un- 
consciously discouraged  it,  so  that  if  Cecilia  had  been 
at  all  that  way  inclined,  she  must  long  ago  have  been 
healed.  Fortunately,  she  never  had  been,  having  too 
much  distrust  of  her  own  feelings  to  give  way  to  them 
completely.  And  Thyme,  that  healthy  product  of 
them  both,  at  once  younger  for  her  age,  and  older, 
than  they  had  ever  been,  with  her  incapacity  for 
nonsense,  her  love  for  open  air  and  facts — that  fresh, 
rising  plant,  so  elastic  and  so  sane — she  had  never 
given  them  a  single  moment  of  uneasiness.    . 

Stephen,  close  to  his  hat-rack,  felt  soreness  in  his 
heart.  Such  blows  as  Fortune  had  dealt,  and  meant 
to  deal  him,  he  had  borne,  and  he  could  bear,  so  long 
as  there  was  nothing  in  his  own  manner  or  in  that  of 
others,  to  show  him  they  were  blows. 

Hurriedly  depositing  his  hat,  he  ran  to  Cecilia. 
He  still  preserved  the  habit  of  knocking  on  her  door 
before  he  entered,  though  she  had  never,  so  far,  an- 
swered, "Don*t  come  in!'*  because  she  knew  his 
knock.  The  custom  gave,  in  fact,  the  measure  of  his 
idealism.  What  he  feared,  or  what  he  thought  he 
feared,  after  nineteen  years  of  unchecked  entrance, 
could  never  have  been  ascertained;  but  there  it  was, 
that  flower  of  something  formal  and  precise,  of  some- 
thing reticent,  within  his  soul. 

This  time,  for  once,  he  did  not  knock,  and 
found  Cecilia  hooking  up  her  tea-gown  and  look- 
ing very  sweet.  She  glanced  at  him  with  mild 
surprise. 

**  What  *s  this,  Cis,''  he  said,  "about  a  baby  dead? 


Stephen's  Private  Life  245 

Thyme  *s  quite  upset  about  it ;  and  your  dad  's  in  the 
drawing-room!'* 

With  the  quick  instinct  that  was  woven  into  all  her 
gentle  treading,  Cecilia's  thoughts  flew — she  could  not 
have  told  why — first  to  the  little  model,  then  to  Mrs. 
Hughs. 

"Dead?**  she  said.     "Oh,  poor  woman!" 

"What  woman?"  Stephen  asked. 

"  It  must  be  Mrs.  Hughs.  '* 

The  thought  passed  darkly  through  Stephen's  mind : 
"Those  people  again!  What  now?"  He  did  not 
express  it,  being  neither  brutal  nor  lacking  in  good 
taste. 

A  short  silence  followed,  then  Cecilia  said  suddenly: 
"Did  you  say  that  father  was  in  the  drawing-room? 
There  's  fillet  of  beef,  Stephen!" 

Stephen  turned  away.  "Go  and  see  Thyme!"  he 
said. 

Outside  Thyme's  door  Cecilia  paused,  and,  hearing 
no  sound,  tapped  gently.  Her  knock  not  being  an- 
swered, she  slipped  in.  On  the  bed  of  that  white 
room,  with  her  face  pressed  into  the  pillow,  her  little 
daughter  lay.  Cecilia  stood  aghast.  Thyme's  whole 
body  was  quivering  with  suppressed  sobs. 

" My  darling!*'  said  Cecilia,  "what  is  it?" 

Thyme's  answer  was  inarticulate. 

Cecilia  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  waited,  drawing 
her  fingers  through  the  girl's  hair,  which  had  fallen 
loose;  and  while  she  sat  there  she  experienced  all 
that  sore,  strange  feeling — as  of  being  skinned — 
which  comes  to  one  who  watches  the  emotion  of 
someone  near  and  dear  without  knowing  the  exact 
cause. 


246  Fraternity 

"This  is  dreadful/'  she  thought.  "What  am  I  to 
do?" 

To  see  one's  child  cry  was  bad  enough,  but  to  see 
her  cry  when  that  child's  whole  creed  of  honour  and 
conduct  for  years  past  had  precluded  this  relief  as 
unfeminine,  was  worse  than  disconcerting. 

Thyme  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  turning  her  face 
carefully  away. 

"  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with  me, "  she 
said,  choking.     "  It 's — it  's  purely  physical. " 

"Yes,  darling,"  murmured  Cecilia;  "I  know." 

"  Oh,  mother!"  said  Thyme  suddenly,  "it  looked  so 
tiny. " 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  sweet. " 

Thyme  faced  round;  there  was  a  sort  of  passion  in 
her  darkened  eyes,  rimmed  pink  with  grief,  and  in  all 
her  flushed,  wet  face. 

"  Why  should  it  have  been  choked  out  like  that  ? 
It 's— it 's  so  brutal!" 

Cecilia  slid  an  arm  round  her. 

"  I  *m  so  distressed  you  saw  it  dear,"  she  said. 

"And  grandfather  was  so "     A  long  sobbing 

quiver  choked  her  utterance. 

"  Yes,  yes, "  said  Cecilia;  "  I  'm  sure  he  was." 

Clasping  her  hands  together  in  her  lap,  Thyme  mut- 
tered: "He  called  him  ^Little  brother.'  " 

A  tear  trickled  down  Cecilia's  cheek,  and  dropped 
on  her  daughter's  wrist.  Feeling  that  it  was  not  her 
own  tear.  Thyme  started  up. 

**It  's  weak  and  ridiculous,"  she  said.  "I  won't! 
Oh,  go  away,  Mother,  please.  I  'm  only  making  you 
feel  bad,  too.  You  'd  better  go  and  see  to  grand- 
father. " 


Stephen's  Private  Life  247 

Cecilia  saw  that  she  would  cry  no  more,  and  since  it 
was  the  sight  of  tears  which  had  so  disturbed  her,  she 
gave  the  girl  a  little  hesitating  stroke,  and  went  away. 
Outside  she  thought:  *'How  dreadfully  unlucky  and 
pathetic;  and  there's  father  in  the  drawing-room!" 
Then  she  hurried  down  to  Mr.  Stone. 

He  was  sitting  where  he  had  first  placed  himself, 
motionless.  It  struck  her  suddenly  how  frail  and 
white  he  looked.  In  the  shadowy  light  of  her  draw- 
ing-room, he  was  almost  like  a  spirit  sitting  there  in 
his  grey  tweed — silvery  from  head  to  foot.  Her  con- 
science smote  her.  It  is  written  of  the  very  old  that 
they  shall  pass,  by  virtue  of  their  long  travel,  out  of 
the  country  of  the  understanding  of  the  young,  till  the 
natural  affections  are  blurred  by  creeping  mists  such 
as  steal  across  the  moors  when  the  sun  is  going  down. 
Cecilia's  heart  ached  with  a  little  ache  for  all  the  times 
she  had  thought:  **If  father  were  only  not  quite  so 

";  for  all  the  times  she  had  shunned  asking  him 

to  come  to  them,  because  he  was  so ;  for  all  the 

silences  she  and  Stephen  had  maintained  after  he  had 
spoken;  for  all  the  little  smiles  she  had  smiled.  She 
longed  to  go  and  kiss  his  brow,  and  make  him  feel  that 
she  was  aching.  But  she  did  not  dare;  he  seemed  so 
far  away ;  it  would  be  ridiculous. 

Coming  down  the  room,  and  putting  her  slim  foot 
on  the  fender  with  a  noise,  so  that  if  possible  he  might 
both  see  and  hear  her,  she  turned  her  anxious  face 
towards  him,  and  said:  ** Father!" 

Mr.  Stone  looked  up,  and  seeing  somebody  who 
seemed  to  be  his  elder  daughter,  answered:  "Yes, 
my  dear?" 

"Are  you  sure  you  're  feeling  quite  the  thing? 


240  rraternity 

Thyme  said  she  thought  seeing  that  poor  baby  had 
upset  you. " 

Mr.  Stone  felt  his  body  with  his  hand. 

**I  am  not  conscious  of  any  pain, "  he  said. 

"Then  you  *11  stay  to  dinner,  dear,  won't  you?** 

Mr.  Stone's  brow  contracted  as  though  he  were 
trying  to  recall  his  past. 

**  I  have  had  no  tea, "  he  said.  Then,  with  a  sudden, 
anxious  look  at  his  daughter:  **The  little  girl  has  not 
come  to  me.     I  miss  her.     Where  is  she? '* 

The  ache  within  Cecilia  became  more  poignant. 

"It  is  now  two  days, ''  said  Mr.  Stone,  "and  she  has 
left  her  room  in  that  house — ^in  that  street.  '*> 

Cecilia,  at  her  wits*  end,  answered:  "Do  you  really 
miss  her,  Father?'' 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Stone.     "She  is  like "     His 

eyes  wandered  round  the  room  as  though  seeking 
something  that  would  help  him  to  express  himself. 
They  fixed  themselves  on  the  far  wall.  Cecilia,  fol- 
lowing their  gaze,  saw  a  little  solitary  patch  of  sun- 
light dancing  and  trembling  there.  It  had  escaped 
the  screen  of  trees  and  houses,  and,  creeping  through 
some  chink,  had  quivered  in.  "She  is  like  that," 
said  Mr.  Stone,  pointing  with  his  finger.  "It  is 
gone! "     His  finger  dropped ;  he  uttered  a  deep  sigh. 

"  How  dreadful  this  is ! "  Cecilia  thought.  "I  never 
expected  him  to  feel  it,  and  yet  I  can  do  nothing!" 
Hastily  she  asked:  "Would  it  do  if  you  had  Thyme 
to  copy  for  you?     I  *m  sure  she  'd  love  to  come. " 

"She  is  my  grand-daughter, "  Mr.  Stone  said  simply. 
"It  would  not  be  the  same." 

Cecilia  could  think  of  nothing  now  to  say  but: 
"Would  you  like  to  wash  your  hands,  dear?" 


tii 


Stephen's  Private  Life  249 

Yes,  *'  said  Mr.  Stone.      /^ 
Then  will  you  go  up  to  Stephen's  dressing-room 
for  hot  water,  or  will  you  wash  them  in  the  lavatory? " 

"In  the  lavatory, '*  said  Mr.  Stone.  '*I  shall  be 
freer  there." 

When  he  had  gone  Cecilia  thought:  **0h,  dear,  how 
shall  I  get  through  the  evening?  Poor  darling,  he 
is  so  single-minded!** 

At  the  sounding  of  the  dinner-gong  they  all  as- 
sembled— Thyme  from  her  bedroom  with  cheeks  and 
eyes  still  pink,  Stephen  with  veiled  inquiry  in  his 
glance,  Mr.  Stone  from  freedom  in  the  lavatory — ^and 
sat  down,  screened,  but  so  very  little,  from  each  other 
by  sprays  of  white  lilac.  Looking  round  her  table, 
Cecilia  felt  rather  like  one  watching  a  dew-belled  cob- 
web, most  delicate  of  all  things  in  the  world,  menaced 
by  the  tongue  of  a  browsing  cow. 

Both  soup  and  fish  had  been  achieved,  however, 
before  a  word  was  spoken.  It  was  Stephen  who, 
after  taking  a  mouthful  of  dry  sherry,  broke  the 
silence. 

**How  are  you  getting  on  with  your  book,  sir?"  he 
said. 

Cecilia  heard  that  question  with  something  like 
dismay.  It  was  so  bald;  for,  however  inconvenient 
Mr.  Stone's  absorption  in  his  manuscript  might  be, 
her  delicacy  told  her  how  precious  beyond  life  itself 
that  book  was  to  him.  To  her  relief,  however,  her 
father  was  eating  spinach. 

**  You  must  be  getting  near  the  end,  I  should  think, " 
proceeded  Stephen. 

Cecilia  spoke  hastily :  **  Is  n't  this  white  lilac  lovely, 
Dad?" 


2SO  Fraternity 

Mr.  Stone  looked  up. 

'*It  is  not  white;  it  is  really  pink.  The  test  is 
simple. "     He  paused  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  lilac. 

"Ah !  '*  thought  Cecilia,  *  *  now,  if  I  can  only  keep  him 
on  natural  science — ^he  used  to  be  so  interesting.  '* 

*'A11  flowers  are  one!*'  said  Mr.  Stone.  His  voice 
had  changed. 

Oh !  **  thought  Cecilia,  *  *  he  is  gone  V 
They  have  but  a  single  soul.     In  those  days  men 
divided,  and  subdivided  them,  oblivious  of  the  one 
pale  spirit  that  underlay  those  seemingly  separate 
forms.  '* 

Cecilia's  glance  passed  swiftly  from  the  man-servant 
to  Stephen. 

She  saw  one  of  her  husband's  eyes  rise  visibly. 
Stephen  did  so  hate  one  thing  to  be  confounded  with 
another. 

**0h,  come  sir,"  she  heard  him  say;  **you  don't 
surely  tell  us  that  dandelions  and  roses  have  the  same 
pale  spirit!" 

Mr.  Stone  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

**Did  I  say  that?"  he  said.  **I  had  no  wish  to  be 
dogmatic. " 

**Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all,"  murmured  Stephen. 

Thyme,  leaning  over  to  her  mother,  whispered: 
**0h.  Mother,  don't  let  grandfather  be  queer;  I  can't 
bear  it  to-night!" 

Cecilia,  at  her  wits*  end,  said  hurriedly: 

**Dad,  will  you  tell  us  what  sort  of  character  you 
think  that  little  girl  who  comes  to  you  has? " 

Mr.  Stone  paused  in  the  act  of  drinking  water;  his 
attention  had  evidently  been  riveted;  he  did  not, 
however,  speak.     And  Cecilia,  seeing  that  the  butler, 


Stephen's  Private  Life  251 

out  of  the  perversity  which  she  found  so  conspicuous 
in  her  servants,  was  about  to  hand  him  beef,  made  a 
desperate  movement  with  her  lips.  **  No,  Charles,  not 
there,  not  there!" 

The  butler,  tightening  his  lips,  passed  on.  Mr. 
Stone  spoke: 

*'I  had  not  considered  that.  She  is  rather  of  a 
Celtic  than  an  Anglo-Saxon  type;  the  cheek-bones  are 
prominent ;  the  jaw  is  not  massive ;  the  head  is  broad 
— ^if  I  can  remember  I  will  measure  it ;  the  eyes  are 
of  a  peculiar  blue,  resembling  chicory  flowers;  the 
mouth "     Mr.  Stone  paused. 

Cecilia  thought:  **What  a  lucky  find!  Now  per- 
haps he  will  go  on  all  right!" 

**I  do  not  know,*'  Mr.  Stone  resumed,  speaking  in 
a  far-off  voice,  **  whether  she  would  be  virtuous.  *' 

Cecilia  heard  Stephen  drinking  sherry;  Thyme,  too, 
was  drinking  something ;  she  herself  drank  nothing,  but, 
pink  and  quiet,  for  she  was  a  well-bred  woman,  said: 

**You  have  no  new  potatoes,  dear.  Charles,  give 
Mr.  Stone  some  new  potatoes. " 

By  the  almost  vindictive  expression  on  Stephen's 
face  she  saw,  however,  that  her  failure  had  decided 
him  to  resume  command  of  the  situation.  **  Talking 
of  brotherhood,  sir,**  he  said  dryly,  ** would  you  go  so 
far  as  to  say  that  a  new  potato  is  the  brother  of  a 
bean?** 

Mr.  Stone,  on  whose  plate  these  two  vegetables 
reposed,  looked  almost  painfully  confused. 

**  I  do  not  perceive,  '*  he  stammered,  ** any  difference 
between  them.** 

**It*s  true,*'  said  Stephen;  **the  same  pale  spirit 
can  be  extracted  from  them  both." 


252  Fraternity 

Mr.  Stone  looked  up  at  him. 

**You  laugh  at  me,"  he  said.  **I  cannot  help  it; 
but  you  must  not  laugh  at  life — that  is  blasphemy. " 

Before  the  piercing  wistfulness  of  that  sudden  gaze 
Stephen  was  abashed.  Cecilia  saw  him  bite  his  lower 
lip. 

"We*re  talking  too  much,"  he  said;  '*we  really 
must  let  your  father  eat ! "  And  the  rest  of  the  dinner 
was  achieved  in  silence. 

When  Mr.  Stone,  refusing  to  be  accompanied,  had 
taken  his  departure,  and  Thyme  had  gone  to  bed, 
Stephen  withdrew  to  his  study.  This  room,  wliich 
had  a  different  air  from  any  other  portion  of  the 
house,  was  sacred  to  his  private  life.  Here,  in 
specially  designed  compartments,  he  kept  his  golf 
clubs,  pipes,  and  papers.  Nothing  was  touched  by 
anyone  except  himself,  and  twice  a  week  by  one 
peculiar  housemaid.  Here  was  no  bust  of  Socrates, 
no  books  in  deerskin  bindings,  but  a  bookcase  filled 
with  treatises  on  law,  Blue  Books,  reviews,  and  the 
novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott;  two  black  oak  cabinets 
stood  side  by  side  against  the  wall  filled  with  small 
drawers.  When  these  cabinets  were  opened  and  the 
drawers  drawn  forward  there  emerged  a  scent  of 
metal  polish.  If  the  green  baize  covers  of  the  drawers 
were  lifted,  there  were  seen  coins,  carefully  arranged 
with  labels — as  one  may  see  plants  growing  in  rows, 
each  with  its  little  name  tied  on.  To  these  tidy 
rows  of  shining  metal  discs  Stephen  turned  in  moments 
when  his  spirit  was  fatigued.  To  add  to  them,  touch 
them,  read  their  names,  gave  him  the  sweet,  secret 
feeling  which  comes  to  a  man  who  rubs  one  hand 
against  the  other.     Like  a   dram-drinker,    Stephen 


Stephen's  Private  Life  253 

drank — in  little  doses — of  the  feeling  these  coins  gave 
him.  They  were  his  creative  work,  his  history  of  the 
world.  To  them  he  gave  that  side  of  him  which  re- 
fused to  find  its  full  expression  in  summarising  law, 
playing  golf,  or  reading  the  reviews;  that  side  of  a 
man  which  aclies,  he  knows  not  wherefore,  to  con- 
struct something  ere  he  die.  From  Rameses  to 
George  IV.  the  coins  lay  within  those  drawers — ^links 
of  the  long  unbroken  chain  of  authority. 

Putting  on  an  old  black  velvet  jacket  laid  out  for 
him  across  a  chair,  and  lighting  the  pipe  that  he  could 
never  bring  him§elf  to  smoke  in  his  formal  dinner 
clothes,  he  went  to  the  right-hand  cabinet,  and 
opened  it.  He  stood  with  a  smile,  taking  up  coins 
one  by  one.  In  this  particular  drawer  they  were  of 
the  best  Byzantine  dynasty,  very  rare.  He  did  not 
see  that  Cecilia  had  stolen  in,  and  was  silently  re- 
garding him.  Her  eyes  seemed  doubting  at  that 
moment  whether  or  no  she  loved  him  who  stood  there 
touching  that  other  mistress  of  his  thoughts — ^that 
other  mistress  with  whom  he  spent  so  many  evening 
hours.  The  little  green  baize  cover  fell.  Cecilia  said 
suddenly : 

**  Stephen,  I  feel  as  if  I  must  tell  father  where  that 
girl  is!" 

Stephen  turned. 

**My  dear  child,"  he  answered  in  his  special  voice, 
which,  like  champagne,  seemed  to  have  been  dried 
by  artifice,  **you  don't  want  to  reopen  the  whole 
thing?" 

**But  I  can  see  he  really  is  upset  about  it;  he's 
looking  so  awfully  white  and  thin. " 

**He  ought  to  give  up  that  bathing  in  the  Serpen- 


254  Fraternity 

tine.  At  his  age  it 's  monstrous.  And  surely  any 
other  girl  will  do  just  as  well?'' 

**  He  seems  to  set  store  by  reading  to  her  specially. " 

Stephen  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  had  happened 
to  him  on  one  occasion  to  be  present  when  Mr.  Stone 
was  declaiming  some  pages  of  his  manuscript.  He 
had  never  forgotten  the  discomfort  of  the  experience. 
*'That  crazy  stuff, "  as  he  had  called  it  to  Cecilia  after- 
wards, had  remained  on  his  mind,  heavy  and  damp, 
like  a  cold  linseed  poultice.  His  wife's  father  was  a 
crank,  and  perhaps  even  a  little  more  than  a  crank,  a 
wee  bit  **touched" — ^that  she  couldn't  help,  poor 
girl;  but  any  allusion  to  his  cranky  produce  gave 
Stephen  pain.  Nor  had  he  forgotten  his  experience 
at  dinner. 

**  He  seems  to  have  grown  fond  of  her, "  murmured 
Cecilia. 

** But  it  's  absurd  at  his  time  of  life!" 

"Perhaps  that  makes  him  feel  it  more;  people  do 
miss  things  when  they  are  old!" 

Stephen  slid  the  drawer  back  into  its  socket.  There 
was  dry  decision  in  that  gesture. 

"Look  here!  Let's  exercise  a  little  common  sense; 
it 's  been  sacrificed  to  sentiment  all  through  this 
wretched  business.  One  wants  to  be  kind,  of  course ; 
but  one  's  got  to  draw  the  line. " 

"Ah!"  said  Cecilia;  "where?" 

"  The  thing, ' *  went  on  Stephen,  "  has  been  a  mistake 
from  first  to  last.  It  's  all  very  well  up  to  a  certain 
point,  but  after  that  it  becomes  destructive  of  all 
comfort.  It  does  n't  do  to  let  these  people  come  into 
personal  contact  with  you.  There  are  the  proper 
channels  for  that  sort  of  thing. '! 


Stephen* s  Private  Life  255 

Cecilia's  eyes  were  lowered,  as  though  she  did  not 
dare  to  let  him  see  her  thoughts. 

**It  seems  so  horrid,'*  she  said;  *'and  father  is  not 
like  other  people." 

"He  is  not,*'  said  Stephen  dryly;  **we  had  a  pretty 
good  instance  of  that  this  evening.  But  Hilary  and 
your  sister  are.  There  *s  something  most  distasteful 
to  me,  too,  about  Thyme's  going  about  slumming. 
You  see  what  she  's  been  let  in  for  this  afternoon. 
The  notion  of  that  baby  being  killed  through  the 
man's  treatment  of  his  wife,  and  that,  no  doubt, 
arising  from  the  girl's  leaving  them,  is  most  repul- 
sive!" 

To  these  words  Cecilia  answered  with  a  sound  almost 
like  a  gasp.  **  I  had  n't  thought  of  that.  Then  we  're 
responsible ;  it  was  we  who  advised  Hilary  to  make  her 
change  her  lodging. " 

Stephen  stared;  he  regretted  sincerely  that  his 
legal  habit  of  mind  had  made  him  put  the  case  so 
clearly. 

"I  can't  imagine,"  he  said,  almost  violently, 
"what  possesses  everybody!  We — responsible!  Good 
gracious  I  Because  we  gave  Hilary  some  sound  advice ! 
What  next?" 

Cecilia  turned  to  the  empty  hearth. 

"Thyme  has  been  telling  me  about  that  poor  little 
thing.  It  seems  so  dreadful,  and  I  can't  get  rid  of  the 
feeling  that  we  're — we  're  all  mixed  up  with  it!" 

"Mixed  up  with  what?" 

"I  don't  know;  it  's  just  a  feeling  like — like  being 
haunted." 

Stephen  took  her  quietly  by  the  arm. 

"My  dear  old  girl,"  he  said,  "I  'd  no  idea  that  you 


256  Fraternity 

were  run  down  like  this.  To-morrow  's  Thursday, 
and  I  can  get  away  at  three.  We  '11  motor  down  to 
Richmond,  and  have  a  round  or  two!" 

Cecilia  quivered ;  for  a  moment  it  seemed  that  she 
was  about  to  burst  out  crying.  Stephen  stroked  her 
shoulder  steadily.  Cecilia  must  have  felt  his  dread; 
she  struggled  loyally  with  her  emotion. 

**That  will  be  very  jolly, "  she  said  at  last. 

Stephen  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"And  don't  you  worry,  dear,  '*  he  said,  "about  your 
dad ;  he  '11  have  forgotten  the  whole  thing  in  a  day  or 
two ;  he  's  far  too  wrapped  up  in  his  book.  Now  trot 
along  to  bed;  I  '11  be  up  directly. " 

Before  going  out  Cecilia  looked  back  at  him.  How 
wonderful  was  that  look,  which  Stephen  did  not — per- 
haps intentionally — see.  Mocking,  almost  hating, 
and  yet  thanking  him  for  having  refused  to  let  her  be 
emotional  and  yield  herself  up  for  once  to  what  she 
felt,  showing  him  too  how  clearly  she  saw  through  his 
own  masculine  refusal  to  be  made  to  feel,  and  how  she 
half-admired  it — all  this  was  in  that  look,  and  more. 
Then  she  went  out. 

Stephen  glanced  quickly  at  the  door,  and,  pursing 
up  his  lips,  frowned.  He  threw  the  window  open,  and 
inhaled  the  night  air. 

"If  I  don't  look  out,"  he  thought,  "I  shall  be  hav- 
ing  her  mixed  up  with  this.  I  was  an  ass  ever  to  have 
spoken  to  old  Hilary.  I  ought  to  have  ignored  the 
matter  altogether.  It  *s  a  lesson  not  to  meddle  with 
people  in  those  places.  I  hope  to  God  she  '11  be 
herself  to-morrow!'* 

Outside,  under  the  soft  black  foliage  of  the  Square, 
beneath  the  slim  sickle  of  the  moon,  two  cats  wera 


Stephen's  Private  Life  257 

hunting  after  happiness ;  their  savage  cries  of  psataon 

rang  in  the  blossom-scented  air  like  a  cry  of  dark 
humanity  in  the  jungle  of  dim  streets.  Stephen, 
with  a  shiver  of  di^ust,  for  his  nerves  were  on  edgct 
shut  the  window  with  a  slam. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

HILARY  HEARS  THE  CUCKOO  SING 

IT  was  not  left  to  Cecilia  alone  to  remark  how 
very  white  Mr.  Stone  looked  in  these  days. 

The  wild  force  which  every  year  visits  the  world, 
driving  with  its  soft  violence  snowy  clouds  and 
their  dark  shadows,  breaking  through  all  crusts  and 
sheaths,  covering  the  earth  in  a  fierce  embrace; 
the  wild  force  which  turns  form  to  form,  and  with 
its  million  leapings,  swift  as  the  flight  of  swallows 
and  the  arrow-darts  of  the  rain,  hurries  ever5rthing 
on  to  sweet  mingling — ^this  great,  wild  force  of 
universal  life,  so-called  the  Spring,  had  come  to 
Mr.  Stone,  like  new  wine  to  some  old  bottle.  And 
Hilary,  to  whom  it  had  come,  too,  watching  him 
every  morning  setting  forth  with  a  rough  towel 
across  his  arm,  wondered  whether  the  old  man 
would  not  this  time  leave  his  spirit  swimming  in 
the  chill  waters  of  the  Serpentine — so  near  that 
spirit  seemed  to  breaking  through  its  fragile 
shell. 

Four  days  had  gone  by  since  the  interview  at 
which  he  had  sent  away  the  little  model,  and  life 
in  his  household — ^that  quiet  backwater  choked  with 
lilies — seenied  to  have  resumed  the  tranquillity 
enjoyed  before  this  intrusion  of  rude  life.  The 
paper  whiteness  of  Mr.  Stone  was  the  only  patent 
evidence  that   anything   disturbing  had  occurred — 

358 


Hilary  Hears  the  Cuckoo  Sing     259 

that  and  certain  feelings  about  which  the  strictest 
silence  was  preserved. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day,  seeing  the  old 
man  stumble  on  the  level  flagstones  of  the  garden, 
Hilary  finished  dressing  hastily,  and  followed.  He 
overtook  him  walking  forward  feebly  beneath  the 
cimdelabra  of  flowering  chestnut-trees,  with  a  hail- 
shower  striking  white  on  his  high  shoulders;  and, 
placing  himself  alongside,  without  greeting — for  forms 
were  all  one  to  Mr.  Stone — he  said: 

"Surely  you  don*t  mean  to  bathe  during  a  hail- 
storm, sir!  Make  an  exception  this  once.  You  're 
not  looking  quite  yourself." 

Mr.  Stone  shook  his  head;  then,  evidently  following 
out  a  thought  which  Hilary  had  interrupted,  he 
remarked : 

"  The  sentiment  that  men  call  honour  is  of  doubtful 
value.  I  have  not  as  yet  succeeded  in  relating  it 
to  universal  brotherhood." 

"How  is  that  sir?*' 

"In  so  far,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  "as  it  consists  in 
fidelity  to  principle,  one  might  assume  it  worthy 
of  conjunction.  The  difficulty  arises  when  we  con- 
sider the  nature  of  the  principle.  .  .  .  There  is 
a  family  of  young  thrushes  in  the  garden.  If  one 
of  them  finds  a  worm,  I  notice  that  his  devotion  to 
that  principle  of  self-preservation  which  prevails 
in  all  low  forms  of  life  forbids  his  sharing  it  with 
any  of  the  other  little  thrushes." 

Mr.  Stone  had  fixed  his  eyes  on  distance. 

**So  it  is,  I  fear,"  he  said,  **with  'honour.'  In 
those  days  men  looked  on  women  as  thrushes  look 
on  worms- " 


26o  Fraternity 

He  paused,  evidently  searching  for  a  word;  and 
Hilary,  with  a  faint  smile,  said: 

"And  how  did  women  look  on  men,  sir?" 

Mr.  Stone  observed  him  with  surprise.  **I  did 
not  perceive  that  it  was  you,**  he  said.  "I  have  to 
avoid  brain  action  before  bathing." 

They  had  crossed  the  road  dividing  the  Gardens 
from  the  Park,  and  seeing  that  Mr.  Stone  had  already 
seen  the  water  where  he  was  about  to  bathe,  and 
would  now  see  nothing  else,  Hilary  stopped  beside 
a  little  lonely  birch-tree.  This  wild,  small,  graceful 
visitor,  who  had  long  bathed  in  winter,  was  already 
draping  her  bare  limbs  in  a  scarf  of  green.  Hilary 
leaned  against  her  cool,  pearly  body.  Below  were 
the  chilly  waters,  now  grey,  now  starch-blue,  and 
the  pale  forms  of  fifteen  or  twenty  bathers.  While 
he  stood  shivering  in  the  frozen  wind,  the  sun, 
bursting  through  the  hail-cloud,  burned  his  cheeks 
and  hands.  And  suddenly  he  heard,  clear,  but  far 
off,  the  sound  which,  of  all  others,  stirs  the  hearts 
of  men :  "  Cuckoo,  cuckoo ! " 

Four  times  over  came  the  unexpected  call.  Whence 
had  that  ill-advised,  indelicate  grey  bird  flown  into 
this  great  haunt  of  men  and  shadows?  Why  had  it 
come  with  its  arrowy  flight  and  mocking  cry  to  pierce 
the  heart  and  set  it  aching?  There  were  trees  enough 
outside  the  town,  cloud-swept  hollows,  tangled 
brakes  of  furze  just  coming  into  bloom,  where  it 
could  preside  over  the  process  of  Spring.  What 
solemn  freak  was  this  which  made  it  come  and  sing 
to  one  who  had  no  longer  any  business  with  the 
Spring? 

With  a  real  spasm  in   his   heart   Hilary  turned 


Hilary  Hears  the  Cuckoo  Sing     261 

away  from  that  distant  bird,  and  went  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  Mr.  Stone  was  swimming,  slower  than 
man  had  ever  swum  before.  His  silver  head  and 
lean  arms  alone  were  visible,  parting  the  water  feebly; 
suddenly  he  disappeared.  He  was  but  a  dozen  yards 
from  the  shore;  and  Hilary,  alarmed  at  not  seeing 
him  reappear,  ran  in.  The  water  was  not  deep.  Mr. 
Stone,  seated  at  the  bottom,  was  doing  all  he  could 
to  rise.  Hilary  took  him  by  his  bathing-dress, 
raised  him  to  the  surface,  and  supported  him  towards 
the  land.  By  the  time  they  reached  the  shore  he 
could  just  stand  on  his  legs.  With  the  assistance  of 
a  policeman,  Hilary  enveloped  him  in  garments 
and  got  him  to  a  cab.  He  had  regained  some  of 
his  vitality,  but  did  not  seem  aware  of  what  had 
happened. 

"I  was  not  in  as  long  as  usual/'  he  mused,  as  they 
passed  out  into  the  high-road. 

"Oh,  I  think  so,  sir.'' 

Mr.  Stone  looked  troubled. 

"It  is  odd,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  recollect  leaving 
the  water." 

He  did  not  speak  again  till  he  was  being  assisted 
from  the  cab. 

"I  wish  to  recompense  the  man.  I  have  half  a 
crown  indoors." 

"  I  will  get  it,  sir,"  said  Hilary. 

Mr.  Stone,  who  shivered  violently  now  that  he  was 
on  his  feet,  turned  his  face  up  to  the  cabman. 

"Nothing  is  nobler  than  the  horse,"  he  said; 
"take  care  of  him." 

The  cabman  removed  his  hat.  "I  will,  sir,"  he 
answered. 


262  Fraternity 

Walking  by  himself,  but  closely  watched  by  Hilary, 
Mr.  Stone  reached  his  room.  He  groped  about  him 
as  though  not  distinguishing  objects  too  well  through 
the  crystal  clearness  of  the  fundamental  flux. 

"If  I  might  advise  you,"  said  Hilary,  "I  would 
get  back  into  bed  for  a  few  minutes.  You  seem  a 
little  chilly." 

Mr.  Stone,  who  was  indeed  shaking  so  that  he 
could  hardly  stand,  allowed  Hilary  to  assist  him 
into  bed  and  tuck  the  blankets  round  him. 

"  I  must  be  at  work  by  ten  o'clock,"  he  said. 

Hilary,  who  was  also  shivering,  hastened  to 
Bianca's  room.  She  was  just  coming  dx)wn,  and 
exclaimed  at  seeing  him  all  wet.  When  he  had  told 
her  of  the  episode  she  touched  his  shoulder. 

"What  about  you?" 

"  A  hot  bath  and  drink  will  set  me  right.  You  'd 
better  go  to  him.'' 

He  turned  towards  the  bathroom,  where  Miranda 
stood,  lifting  a  white  foot.  Compressing  her  lips, 
Bianca  ran  downstairs.  Startled  by  his  tale,  she 
would  have  taken  his  wet  body  in  her  arms,  if  the 
ghosts  of  innumerable  moments  had  not  stood  be- 
tween. So  this  moment  passed  too,  and  itself  became 
a  ghost. 

Mr.  Stone,  greatly  to  his  disgust,  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  resuming  work  at  ten  o'clock.  Failing 
simply  because  he  could  not  stand  on  his  legs,  he 
had  announced  his  intention  of  waiting  until  half- 
past  three,  when  he  should  get  up,  in  preparation  for 
the  coming  of  the  little  girl.  Having  refused  to  see 
a  doctor,  or  have  his  temperature  taken,  it  wa^ 
impossible  to  tell  precisely  what  degree  of  fever  he 


Hilary  Hears  the  Cuckoo  Sing     263 

was  in.  In  his  cheeks,  just  visible  over  the  blankets, 
there  was  more  colour  than  there  should  have  been; 
and  his  eyes,  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  shone  with  sus- 
picious brilliancy.  To  the  dismay  of  Bianca — ^who 
sat  as  far  out  of  sight  as  possible,  lest  he  should  see 
her,  and  fancy  that  she  was  doing  him  a  service — 
he  pursued  his  thoughts  aloud: 

"Words — words — they  have  taken  away  brother- 
hood!'* Bianca  shuddered,  listening  to  that  uncanny 
sound.  *'  *  In  those  days  of  words  they  called  it 
death — pale  death — 7nors  pallida.  They  saw  that 
word  like  a  gigantic  granite  block  suspended  over 
them,  and  slowly  coming  down.  Some,  turning  up 
their  faces  at  the  sight,  trembled  painfully,  awaiting 
their  obliteration.  Others,  unable  while  they  still 
lived,  to  face  the  thought  of  nothingness,  inflated  by 
some  spiritual  wind,  and  thinking  always  of  their 
individual  forms,  called  out  unceasingly  that  those 
selves  of  theirs  would  and  must  survive  this  word — 
that  in  some  fashion  which  no  man  could  understand, 
each  self-conscious  entity  reaccumulated  after  dis- 
tribution. Drunk  with  this  thought,  these,  too, 
passed  away.  Some  waited  for  it  with  grim,  dry 
eyes,  remarking  that  the  process  was  molecular,  and 
thus  they  also  met  their  so-called  death.*" 

His  voice  ceased,  and  in  place  of  it  rose  the  sound 
of  his  tongue  moistening  his  palate.  Bianca,  from 
behind,  placed  a  glass  of  barley-water  to  his  lips. 
He  drank  it  with  a  slow,  clucking  noise;  then,  seeing 
that  a  hand  held  the  glass,  said:  "  Is  that  you?  Are 
you  ready  for  me  ?  Follow.  *  In  those  days  no  one 
leaped  up  to  meet  pale  riding  Death;  no  one  saw 
in   her   face   that   she   was   brotherhood   incarnate; 


264  Fraternity 

no  one  with  a  heart  as  light  as  gossamer  kissed  her 
feet,  and,  smiling,  passed  into  the  Universe.* "  His 
voice  died  away,  and  when  he  next  spoke  it  was  in 
a  quick,  husky  whisper:    "I  must — I  must — I  must 

**     There  was  silence;    then  he  added:    "Give 

me  my  trousers." 

Bianca  placed  them  by  his  bed.  The  sight  seemed 
to  reassure  him.     He  was  once  more  silent. 

For  more  than  an  hour  after  this  he  was  so  ab- 
solutely still  that  Bianca  rose  continually  to  look 
at  him.  Each  time,  his  eyes,  wide  open,  were  fixed 
on  a  little  dark  mark  across  the  ceiling;  his  face 
had  a  look  of  the  most  singular  determination,  as 
though  his  spirit  were  slowly,  relentlessly  regaining 
mastery  over  his  fevered  body.    He  spoke  suddenly: 

"Who  is  there?'* 

"Bianca." 

"Helpmeout  of  bed!" 

The  flush  had  left  his  face,  the  brilliance  had 
faded  from  his  eyes;  he  looked  just  like  a  ghost. 
With  a  sort  of  terror  Bianca  helped  him  out  of  bed. 
This  weird  display  of  mute  will-power  was  unearthly. 

When  he  was  dressed  in  his  woollen  gown  and  seated 
before  the  fire,  she  gave  him  a  cup  of  strong  beef-tea, 
with  brandy.    He  swallowed  it  with  great  avidity. 

"I  shotdd  like  some  more  of  that,"  he  said,  and 
fell  asleep. 

While  he  was  asleep  Cecilia  came,  and  the  two 
sisters  watched  his  slumber,  and,  watching  it,  felt 
nearer  to  each  other  than  they  had  for  many  years. 
Before  she  went  away  Cecelia  whispered : 

"  B.,  if  he  seems  to  want  that  little  girl  while  he  *s 
like  this,  don't  you  think  she  ought  to  come?" 


Hilary  Hears  the  Cuckoo  Sing     265 

Bianca  answered:  "  I  don't  know  where  she  is." 

"I  do/' 

"Ah!"  said  Bianca;  "of  course!"  And  she' turned 
her  head  away. 

Disconcerted  by  that  sarcastic  little  speech,  Cecilia 
was  silent;  then,  summoning  all  her  courage,  she 
said: 

"Here's  the  address,  B.  I've  written  it  down 
for  you";  and,  with  puckers  of  anxiety  in  her  face, 
she  left  the  room. 

Bianca  sat  on  in  the  old  golden  chair,  watching 
the  deep  hollows  beneath  the  sleeper's  temples,  the 
puffs  of  breath  stirring  the  silver  round  his 
mouth.  Her  ears  burned  crimson.  Carried  out  of 
herself  by  the  sight  of  that  old  form,  dearer  to  her 
than  she  had  thought,  fighting  its  great  battle  for 
the  sake  of  its  idea,  her  spirit  grew  all  tremulous 
and  soft  within  her.  With  eagerness  she  embraced 
the  thought  of  self-effacement.  It  did  not  seem  to 
matter  whether  she  were  first  with  Hilary.  Her 
spirit  should  so  manifest  its  capacity  for  sacrifice 
that  she  would  be  first  with  him  through  sheer 
nobility.  At  this  moment  she  could  almost  have 
taken  that  common  little  girl  into  her  arms  and 
kissed  her.  So  would  all  disquiet  end!  Some  har- 
monious messenger  had  fluttered  to  her  for  a  second — 
the  gold-winged  bird  of  peace.  In  this  sensuous 
exaltation  her  nerves  vibrated,  like  the  strings  of  a 
violin. 

When  Mr.  Stone  woke  it  was  past  three  o'clock, 
and  Bianca  at  once  handed  him  another  cup  of 
strong  beef -tea. 

He  swallowed  it,  and  said:   **  What  is  this?" 


266  Fraternity 

"Beef-tea." 

Mr.  Stone  looked  at  the  empty  cup. 

*'I  must  not  drink  it.  The  cow  and  the  sheep  are 
on  the  same  plane  as  man." 

"But  how  do  you  feel,  dear?" 

"I  feel,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  "able  to  dictate  what 
I  have  already  written — not  more.     Has  she  come?" 

"Not  yet;  but  I  will  go  and  find  her  if  you  like." 

Mr.  Stone  looked  at  his  daughter  wistfully. 

"That  will  be  taking  up  your  time,'*  he  said. 

Bianca  answered:  "  My  time  is  of  no  consequence." 

Mr.  Stone  stretched  his  hands  out  to  the  fire. 

"I  will  not  consent,"  he  said,  evidently  to  himself, 
"to  be  a  drag  on  anyone.  If  that  has  come,  then  I 
must  go!" 

Bianca,  placing  herself  beside  him  on  her  knees, 
pressed  her  hot  cheek  against  his  temple. 

"But  it  has  not  come.  Dad." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Mr.  Stone.  "I  wish  to  end  my 
book  first." 

The  sudden  grim  coherence  of  his  last  two  sayings 
terrified  Bianca  more  than  all  his  feverish  utterances. 

"I  rely  on  your  sitting  quite  still,"  she  said,  "while 
I  go  and  find  her."  And  with  a  feeling  in  her  heart 
as  though  two  hands  had  seized  and  were  pulling 
it  asunder,  she  went  out. 

Some  half-hour  later  Hilary  slipped  quietly  in, 
and  stood  watching  at  the  door.  Mr.  Stone,  seated 
on  the  very  verge  of  his  armchair,  with  his  hands 
on  its  arms,  was  slowly  rising  to  his  feet,  and  slowly 
falling  back  again,  not  once,  but  many  times,  practis- 
ing a  standing  posture.  As  Hilary  came  into  bis 
line  of  sight,  he  said: 


Hilary  Hears  the  Cuckoo  Sing     267 

**I  have  succeeded  twice." 

"I  am  very  glad,'*  said  Hilary.  ** Won't  you 
rest  now,  sir?" 

**It  is  my  knees,*'  said  Mr.  Stone.  *'She  has  gone 
to  find  her.'* 

Hilary  heard  those  words  with  bewilderment,  and, 
sitting  down  on  the  other  chair,  waited. 

**I  have  fancied,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  looking  at  him 
wistfully,  **that  when  we  pass  away  from  life  we  may 
become  the  wind.     Is  that  your  opinion?'* 

"It  is  a  new  thought  to  me,"  said  Hilary. 

"It  is  not  tenable,"  said  Mr.  Stone.  "But  it  is 
restful.  The  wind  is  everywhere  and  nowhere,  and 
nothing  can  be  hidden  from  it.  When  I  have  missed 
that  little  girl,  I  have  tried,  in  a  sense,  to  become 
the  wind;  but  I  have  found  it  difficult.'* 

His  eyes  left  Hilary*s  face,  whose  mournful  smile 
he  had  not  noticed,  and  fixed  themselves  on  the 
bright  fire.  "*In  those  days,***  he  said,  "* men's 
relation  to  the  eternal  airs  was  the  relation  of  a  bil- 
lion little  separate  draughts  blowing  against  the 
south-west  wind.  They  did  not  wish  to  merge  them- 
selves in  that  soft,  moon-uttered  sigh,  but  blew 
in  its  face  through  crevices,  and  cracks,  and  key- 
holes, and  were  borne  away  on  the  pellucid  journey, 
whistling  out  their  protests.  *  '* 

He  again  tried  to  stand,  evidently  wishing  to  get 
to  his  desk  to  record  this  thought,  but,  failing, 
looked  painfully  at  Hilary.  He  seemed  about  to 
ask  for  something,  but  checked  himself. 

"If  I  practise  hard,"  he  murmured,  "I  shall 
master  it.** 

Hilary  rose  and  brought  him  paper  and  a  pencil 


268  Fraternity 

In  bending,  he  saw  that  Mr.  Stone's  eyes  were  dim 
with  moisture.  This  sight  affected  him  so  that  he 
was  glad  to  turn  away  and  fetch  a  book  to  form  a 
writing-pad. 

When  Mr.  Stone  had  finished,  he  sat  back  in  his 
chair  with  closed  eyes.  A  supreme  silence  reigned 
in  the  bare  room  above  those  two  men  of  different 
generations  and  of  such  strange  dissimilarity  of 
character.     Hilary  broke  that  silence. 

**I  heard  the  cuckoo  sing  to-day,'*  he  said,  almost 
in  a  whisper,  lest  Mr.  Stone  should  be  asleep. 

"The  cuckoo,'*  replied  Mr.  Stone,  **has  no  sense 
of  brotherhood.'* 

**I  forgive  him  for  his  song,"  murmured  Hilary. 

''His  song,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  "is  alluring;  it  excites 
the  sexual  instinct." 

Then  to  himself  he  added: 

"She  has  not  come,  as  yet!" 

Even  as  he  spoke  there  was  heard  by  Hilary  a 
faint  tapping  on  the  door.  He  rose  and  opened  it. 
The  little  model  stood  outside. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

RBTURN  OP  THE  LITTLB  MODEL 

THAT  same  afternoon  in  High  Street,  Kensington 
**  Westminister/'  with  his  coat-collar  raised 
against  the  inclement  wind,  his  old  hat  spotted  with 
rain,  was  drawing  at  a  clay  pipe  and  fixing  his 
iron-rimmed  gaze  on  those  who  passed  him  by.  It 
had  been  a  day  when  singularly  few  as  yet  had 
bought  from  him  his  faintly  green-tinged  journal, 
and  the  low  class  of  fellow  who  sold  the  other  evening 
prints  had  peculiarly  exasperated  him.  His  singla 
mind,  always  torn  to  some  extent  between  ingrained 
loyalty  to  his  employers  and  those  politics  of  his 
which  differed  from  his  paper's,  had  vented  itself 
twice  since  coming  on  his  stand ;  once  in  these  words 
to  the  seller  of  **Pell  Mells":  **I  stupulated  with 
you  not  to  come  beyond  the  lamp-post.  Don't  you 
never  speak  to  me  again — a-crowdin'  of  me  off  my 
stand";  and  once  to  the  younger  vendors  of  the 
less  expensive  journals,  thus:  **0h,  you  boys!  I  '11 
make  you  regret  of  it — a-snappin*  up  my  customers 
under  my  very  nose!  Wait  until  ye  're  old!"  To 
which  the  boys  had  answered:  **A11  right,  daddy; 
don't  you  have  a  fit.  You  '11  be  a  deader  soon 
enough  without  that,  y'  know!" 

It  was  now   his  time   for  tea,   but   **Pell   Mell" 
having    gone    to    partake   of   this   refreshment,    he 

269 


2^o  Fraternity 

waited  on,  hoping  against  hope  to  get  a  customer 
or  two  of  that  low  fellow's.  And  while  in  blank 
insulation  he  stood  there  a  timid  voice  said  at  his 
elbow: 

"Mr.  Creed!'' 

The  aged  butler  turned  and  saw  the  little 
model. 

'*0h/'  he  said  dryly,  *4t  's  you,  is  it?'*  His  mind, 
with  its  incessant  love  of  rank,  knowing  that  she 
earned  her  living  as  a  handmaid  to  that  disorderly 
establishment,  the  House  of  Art,  had  from  the  first 
classed  her  as  lower  than  a  lady's-maid.  Recent 
events  had  made  him  think  of  her  unkindly.  Her 
new  clothes,  which  he  had  not  been  privileged  to 
see  before,  while  giving  him  a  sense  of  Sunday, 
deepened  his  moral  doubts. 

"And  where  are  you  living  now?**  he  said  in  tones 
incorporating  these  feelings. 

"I  'm  not  to  tell  you.** 

"Oh,  very  well.    Keep  yourself  to  yourself.'* 

The  little  model's  lower  lip*  drooped  more  than 
ever.  There  were  dark  marks  beneath  her  eyes; 
her  face  was  altogether  rather  pinched  and  pitiful. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  any  news?"  she  said  in  her 
matter-of-fact  voice. 

The  old  butler  gave  a  strange  grunt. 

"Ho!"  he  said.  "The  baby's  dead,  and  buried 
to-morrer." 

"Dead!"  repeated  the  little  model. 

"I  'm  a-goin'  to  the  funeral — Brompton  Cemetery. 
Half-past  nine  I  leave  the  door.  And  that  's  a- 
beginnin'  at  the  end.  The  man  's  in  prison,  and  the 
Woman  's  gone  a  shadder  of  herself/! 


Return  of  the  Little  Model       271 

The  little  model  rubbed  her  hands  against  her 
skirt. 

''What  did  he  go  to  prison  for?"' 

''For  assaultin'  of  her;  I  was  witness  to  his 
battery/' 

"Why  did  he  assault  her?*' 

Creed  looked  at  her,  and,  wagging  his  head,  an- 
swered: 

"That  's  best  known  to  them  as  caused  of  it." 

The  little  model's  face  went  the  colour  of  carna- 
tions. 

"I  can't  help  what  he  does,"  she  said.  "What 
should  /  want  him  for — a  man  like  that  ?  It  would  n  't 
be  him  I  'd  want!"  The  genuine  contempt  in  that 
sharp  burst  of  anger  impressed  the  aged  butler. 

"I  'm  not  a-sayin'  anything,"  he  said;  "it  's  all 
a-one  to  me.  I  never  mixes  up  with  no  other  people's 
business.  But  it  's  very  ill-convenient.  I  don't  get 
my  proper  breakfast.  That  poor  woman — she  's  half 
off  her  head.  When  the  baby  's  buried  I  '11  have 
to  go  and  look  out  ig/:  another  room  before  he  gets 
a-comin'  out." 

"I  hope  they'll  keep  him  there,"  muttered  the 
little  model  suddenly. 

"They  give  him  a  month,"  said  Creed. 

"Only  a  month!" 

The  old  butler  looked  at  her.  "There  's  more 
stuff  in  you,  "  he  sepmed  to  say,  "than  ever  I  had 
thought." 

"Because  of  his  servin'  of  his  country,"  he  re- 
marked aloud. 

"I  'm  sorry  about  the  poor  little  baby,"  said  the 
little  model  in  her  stolid  voice. 


272  Fraternity 

"Westminister"  shook  his  head.  "I  never  sus- 
pected him  of  goin'  to  live/*  he  said. 

The  girl,  biting  the  finger-tip  of  her  white  cotton 
glove,  was  staring  out  at  the  traffic.  Like  a  pale 
ray  of  light  entering  the  now  dim  cavern  of  the  old 
man's  mind,  the  thought  came  to  Creed  that  he  did 
not  quite  understand  her.  He  had  in  his  time  had 
occasion  to  class  many  young  persons,  and  the 
feeling  that  he  did  not  quite  know  her  class  of  person 
was  like  the  sensation  a  bat  might  have,  surprised 
by  daylight. 

Suddenly,  without  saying  good-bye  to  him,  she 
walked  away. 

"Well,**  he  thought,  looking  after  her,  "your 
manners  ain't  improved  by  where  you  're  living, 
nor  your  apperiance  neither,  for  all  your  new  clothes." 
And  for  some  time  he  stood  thinking  of  the  stare  in 
her  eyes  and  that  abrupt  departure. 

Tlu-ough  the  crystal  clearness  of  the  fundamental 
flux  the  mind  could  see  at  that  same  moment  Bianca 
leaving  her  front  gate. 

Her  sensuous  exaltation,  her  tremulous  longing 
after  harmony,  had  passed  away;  in  her  heart, 
strangely  mingled,  were  these  two  thoughts:  **If 
only  she  were  a  lady!"  and,  "I  am  glad  she  is  not 
a  lady!" 

Of  all  the  dark  and  tortuous  places  of  this  life 
the  human  heart  is  the  most  dark  and  tortuous; 
and  of  all  human  hearts  none  are  less  clear,  more 
intricate,  than  the  hearts  of  all  that  class  of  people 
among  whom  Bianca  had  her  being.  Pride  was  a 
simple  quality  when  joined  with  a  simple  view  of 
life,    based   on   the  plain    philosophy   of   property; 


Return  of  the  Little  Model       273 

pride  was  no  simple  quality  when  the  hundred 
paralysing  doubts  and  aspirations  of  a  social  con- 
science also  hedged  it  round.  In  thus  going  forth 
with  the  full  intention  of  restoring  the  Uttle  model 
to  her  position  in  the  household,  her  pride  fought 
against  her  pride,  and  her  woman's  sense  of  owner- 
ship in  the  man  whom  she  had  married  wrestled 
with  the  acquired  sentiments  of  freedom,  liberality, 
equality,  good  taste.  With  her  spirit  thus  confused, 
and  her  mind  so  at  variance  with  itself,  she  was 
really  acting  on  the  simple  instinct  of  compassion. 

She  had  run  up-stairs  from  Mr.  Stone's  room,  and 
now  walked  fast,  lest  that  instinct,  the  most  physical, 
perhaps,  of  all — awakened  by  sights  and  sounds, 
and  requiring  constant  nourishment — should  lose  its 
force. 

Rapidly,  then,  she  made  her  way  to  the  grey 
street  in  Bayswater  where  Cecilia  had  told  her  that 
the  girl  now  lived. 

The  tall,  gaunt  landlady  admitted  her. 

"Have  you  a  Miss  Barton  lodging  here?*'  Bianca 
asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  landlady,  "but  I  think  she  's 
out." 

She  looked  into  the  little  model's  room. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "she's  out;  but  if  you'd  like 
to  leave  a  note  you  could  write  in  here.  If  you  're 
looking  for  a  model,  she  wants  work,  I  believe." 

That  modem  faculty  of  pressing  on  an  aching 
nerve  was  assuredly  not  lacking  to  Bianca.  To 
enter  the  girl's  room  was  jabbing  at  the  nerve  indeed. 

She  looked  around  her.  The  mental  vacuity  of 
that  little  room!  There  was  not  one  single  thing — 
z8 


2  74  Fraternity 

with  the  exception  of  a  torn  copy  of  Tit-Bits — 
which  suggested  that  a  mind  of  any  sort  lived  there. 
For  all  that,  perhaps  because  of  that,  it  was  neat 
enough. 

"Yes,**  said  the  landlady,  "she  keeps  her  room 
tidy.  Of  course,  she  's  a  country  girl — comes  from 
down  my  way.'*  She  said  this  with  a  dry  twist  of 
her  grim,  but  not  unkindly,  features.  "  If  it  were  n't 
for  that,**  she  went  on,  "I  don't  think  I  should  care 
to  let  to  one  of  her  profession.** 

Her  hungry  eyes,  gazing  at  Bianca,  had  in  them 
the  aspirations  of  all  Nonconformity. 

Bianca  pencilled  on  her  card: 

"If  you  can  come  to  my  father  to-day  or  to- 
morrow, please  do.** 

"Will  you  give  her  this,  please?  It  will  be  quite 
enough.** 

"Ill  give  it  her,'*  the  landlady  said;  "she  *11 
be  glad  of  it,  I  dare  say.  I  see  her  sitting  here. 
Girls  like  that,  if  they  *ve  got  nothing  to  do — see, 
she  *s  been  moping  on  her  bed.    .    .    .  '* 

The  impress  of  a  form  was,  indeed,  clearly  visible 
on  the  red  and  yellow  tasselled  tapestry  of  the  bed. 

Bianca  cast  a  look  at  it. 

"Thank  you,**  she  said;   "good  day.** 

With  the  jabbed  nerve  aching  badly  she  came 
slowly  homewards. 

Before  the  garden  gate  the  little  model  herself 
was  gazing  at  the  house,  as  if  she  had  been  there 
some  time.  Approaching  from  across  the  road 
Bianca  had  an  admirable  view  of  that  young  figure, 
now  very  trim  and  neat,  yet  with  something  in  its 
lines — more    graceful,    perhaps,    but    less    refined — 


Return  of  the  Little  Model        275 

which  proclaimed  her  not  a  lady;  a  something 
fundamentally  undisciplined  or  disciplined  by  the 
material  tacts  of  life  alone,  rather  than  by  a  secret 
creed  of  voluntary  rules.  It  showed  here  and  there 
in  ways  women  alone  could  understand;  above  all, 
in  the  way  her  eyes  looked  out  on  that  house  which 
she  was  clearly  longing  to  enter.  Not  "Shall  I  go 
in?'*  was  in  that  look,  but  "Dare  I  go  in?'* 

Suddenly  she  saw  Bianca.  The  meeting  of  these 
two  was  very  like  the  ordinary  meeting  of  a  mistress 
and  her  maid.  Bianca's  face  had  no  expression, 
except  the  faint,  distant  curiosity  which  seems  to 
say:  "You  are  a  sealed  book  to  me;  I  have  always 
found  you  so.  What  you  really  think  and  do  I  shall 
never  know.'* 

The  little  model's  face  wore  a  half-caught-out, 
half-stolid  look. 

"Please  go  in,"  Bianca  said;  "my  father  will  be 
glad  to  see  you.*' 

She  held  the  garden  gate  open  for  the  girl  to  pass 
through.  Her  feeling  at  that  moment  was  one  of 
slight  amusement  at  the  futility  of  her  journey. 
Not  even  this  small  piece  of  generosity  was  permitted 
her,  it  seemed. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on?'* 

The  little  model  made  an  impulsive  movement  at 
such  an  unexpected  question.  Checking  it  at  once, 
she  answered: 

"Very  well,  thank  you;  that  is,  not  very " 

"You  will  find  my  father  tired  to-day;  he  has 
caught  a  chill.  Don*t  let  him  read  too  much, 
please.** 

The  little  model  seemed  to  try  and  nerve  herself 


276  Fraternity 

to  make  some  statement,  but,  failing,  passed  into 
the  house. 

Bianca  did  not  follow,  but  stole  back  into  the 
garden,  where  the  sun  was  still  falling  on  a  bed  of 
wallflowers  at  the  far  end.  She  bent  down  over 
these  flowers  till  her  veil  touched  them.  Two  wild 
bees  were  busy  there,  buzzing  with  smoky  wings, 
clutching  with  their  black,  tiny  legs  at  the  orange 
petals,  plunging  their  black,  tiny  tongues  far  down 
into  the  honeyed  centres.  The  flowers  quivered 
beneath  the  weight  of  their  small  dark  bodies. 
Bianca's  face  quivered  too,  bending  close  to  them, 
nor  making  the  slightest  difference  to  their  hunt. 
/  Hilary,  who,  as  it  has  been  seen,  lived  in  thoughts 
about  events  rather  than  in  events  themselves,  and 
to  whom  crude  acts  and  words  had  little  meaning 
save  in  relation  to  what  philosophy  could  make  of 
them,  greeted  the  girl's  appearance  in  the  corridor 
outside  Mr.  Stone*s  apartment  with  a  startled  face. 
But  the  little  model,  who  mentally  lived  very  much 
from  hand  to  mouth,  and  had  only  the  philosophy 
of  wants,  acted  differently.  She  knew  that  for  the 
last  five  days,  like  a  spaniel  dog  shut  away  from 
where  it  feels  it  ought  to  be,  she  had  wanted  to  be 
where  she  was  now  standing;  she  knew  that,  in  her 
new  room  with  its  rust-red  doors,  she  had  bitten 
her  lips  and  fingers  till  blood  came,  and,  as 
newly-caged  birds  will  flutter,  had  beaten  her  wings 
against  those  walls  with  blue  roses  on  a  yellow 
ground.  She  remembered  how  she  had  lain,  brooding, 
on  that  piece  of  red  and  yellow  tapestry,  twisting 
its  tassels,  staring  through  half-closed  eyes  at  nothing. 

There    was    something   different    in    her   look   at 


Return  of  the  Little  Model        277 

Hilary.  It  had  lost  some  of  its  childish  devotion; 
it  was  bolder,  as  if  she  had  lived  and  felt,  and  brushed 
a  good  deal  more  down  off  her  wings  during  those 
few  days. 

"Mrs.  Dallison  told  me  to  come,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  I  might.  Mr.  Creed  told  me  about  him 
being  in  prison." 

Hilary  made  way  for  her,  and,  following  her  into 
Mr.  Stone  *s  presence,  shut  the  door. 

"The  truant  has  returned,"  he  said. 

Hearing  herself  called  so  unjustly  by  that  name, 
the  little  model  flushed  deeply,  and  tried  to  speak. 
She  stopped  at  the  smile  on  Hilary's  face,  and  gazed 
from  him  to  Mr.  Stone  and  back  again,  the  victim 
of  mingled  feelings. 

Mr.  Stone  was  seen  to  have  risen  from  his  feet, 
and  to  be  very  slowly  moving  towards  his  desk.  He 
leaned  both  arms  on  his  papers  for  support,  and, 
seeming  to  gather  strength,  began  sorting  out  his 
manuscript. 

Through  the  open  window  the  distant  music  of 
a  barrel-organ  came  drifting  in.  Faint,  and  much 
too  slow,  was  the  sound  of  the  waltz  it  played,  but 
there  was  invitation,  allurement,  in  that  tune.  The 
little  model  turned  towards  it,  and  Hilary  looked  hard 
at  her.  The  girl  and  that  sound  together — there, 
quite  plain,  was  the  music  he  had  heard  for  many 
days,  like  a  man  lying  with  the  touch  of  fever  on  him. 

"Are  you  ready?"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

The  little  model  dipped  her  pen  in  ink.  Her  eyes 
crept  towards  the  door,  where  Hilary  was  still  stand- 
ing with  the  same  expression  on  his  face.  He  avoided 
her  eyes,  and  went  up  to  Mr.  Stone. 


278  Fraternity 

"Must  you  read  to-day  sir?*' 

Mr.  Stone  looked  at  him  with  anger. 

"Why  not ?^'  he  said. 

"  You  are  hardly  strong  enough.*' 

Mr.  Stone  raised  his  manuscript. 

"We  are  three  days  behind;''  and  very  slowly 
he  began  dictating:    " *  Bar-ba-rous  ha-bits  in  those 

days,  such  as  the  custom  known  as  War '  *'     His 

voice  died  away;  it  was  apparent  that  his  el- 
bows, leaning  on  the  desk,  alone  prevented  his 
collapse. 

Hilary  moved  the  chair,  and,  taking  him  beneath 
the  arms,  lowered  him  gently  into  it. 

Noticing  that  he  was  seated,  Mr.  Stone  raised  his 
manuscript  and  read  on:  "  *  — ^were  pursued  regardless 
of  fraternity.  It  was  as  though  a  herd  of  horn-ed 
cattle  driven  through  green  pastures  to  that  Gate, 
where  they  must  meet  with  certain  dissolution, 
had  set  about  to  prematurely  gore  and  disembowel 
each  other,  out  of  a  passionate  devotion  to  those 
individual  shapes  which  they  were  so  soon  to  lose. 
So  men — tribe  against  tribe,  and  country  against 
country — glared  across  the  valleys  with  their  en- 
sanguined eyes;  they  could  not  see  the  moonlit 
wings,  or  feel  the  embalming  airs  of  brotherhood.'" 

Slower  and  slower  came  his  sentences,  and  as  the 
last  word  died  away  he  was  heard  to  be  asleep, 
breathing  through  a  tiny  hole  left  beneath  the  eave 
of  his  moustache.  Hilary,  who  had  waited  for  that 
moment,  gently  put  the  manuscript  on  the  desk, 
and  beckoned  to  the  girl.  He  did  not  ask  her  to 
his  study,  but  spoke  to  her  in  the  hall. 

"  While  Mr.  Stone  is  like  this  he  misses  you.    You 


Return  of  the  Little  Model        279 

will  come,  then,  at  present,  please,  so  long  as  Hughs 
is  in  prison.     How  do  you  like  your  room?" 

The  little  model  answered  simply:  "Not  very 
much/* 

"Why  not?'' 

"  It 's  lonely  there.  I  shan't  mind,  now  I  'm 
coming  here  again." 

"  Only  for  the  present,"  was  all  Hilary  could  find 
to  say. 

The  little  model's  eyes  were  lowered. 

"Mrs.  Hughs's  baby's  to  be  buried  to-morrow," 
she  said  suddenly. 

"Where?" 

"  In  Brompton  Cemetery.    Mr.  Creed  's  going." 

"What  time  is  the  funeral?" 

The  girl  looked  up  stealthily. 

"  Mr.  Creed  's  going  to  start  at  half-past  nine." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  myself,"  said  Hilary. 

A  gleam  of  pleasure  passing  across  her  face  was 
instantly  obscured  behind  the  cloud  of  her  stolidity. 
Then,  as  she  saw  Hilary  move  nearer  to  the  door, 
her  lip  began  to  droop. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  he  said. 

The  little  model  flushed  and  quivered,  "You 
don't  even  look  at  me,"  she  seemed  to  say;  "you 
have  n't  spoken  kindly  to  me  once."  And  suddenly 
she  said  in  a  hard  voice : 

"  Now  I  shan't  go  to  Mr.  Lennard's  any  more." 

"Oh,  then  you  have  been  to  him!" 

Triumph  at  attracting  his  attention,  fear  of  what 
she  had  admitted,  supplication,  and  a  half-defiant 
shame — all  this  was  in  her  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 


28o  Fraternity 

Hilary  did  not  speak. 

"I  didn't  care  any  more  when  you  told  me  I 
was  n't  to  come  here." 

Still  Hilary  did  not  speak. 

"I  haven't  done  an)rthing  wrong/"  she  said, 
with  tears  in  her  voice. 

"No,  no,"  said  Hilary;  "of  course  not!" 

The  little  model  choked. 

"  It 's  my  profession." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Hilary;   "it 's  all  right." 

"I  don't  care  what  he  thinks;  I  won't  go  again 
so  long  as  I  can  come  here." 

Hilary  touched  her  shoulder. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  and  opened  the  front-door. 

The  little  model,  tremulous,  like  a  flower  kissed  by 
the  sun  after  rain,  went  out  with  a  light  in  her  eyes. 

The  master  of  the  house  returned  to  Mr.  Stone. 
Long  he  sat  looking  at  the  old  man's  slumber.  "A 
thinker  meditating  upon  action!"  So  might  Hilary's 
figure,  with  its  thin  face  resting  on  its  hand,  a  furrow 
between  the  brows,  and  that  painful  smile,  have  been 
entitled  in  any  catalogue  of  statues. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

FUNERAL  OF  A  BABY 

FOLLOWING  out  the  instinct  planted  so  deeply 
in  human  nature  for  treating  with  the  utmost 
care  and  at  great  expense  when  dead  those, 
who,  when  alive,  have  been  served  with  careless  par- 
simony, there  started  from  the  door  of  No.  i  in 
Hound  Street  a  funeral  procession  of  three  four- 
wheeled  cabs. 

The  first  bore  the  little  coffin,  on  which  lay  a 
great  white  wreath  (gift  of  Cecilia  and  Thyme).  The 
second  bore  Mrs.  Hughs,  her  son  Stanley,  and  Joshua 
Creed.     The  third  bore  Martin  Stone. 

In  the  first  cab  silence  was  presiding  with  the  scent 
of  lilies  over  him  who  in  his  short  life  had  made  so 
little  noise,  the  small  grey  shadow  that  had  crept 
so  quietly  into  being,  and,  taking  his  chance  when  he 
was  not  noticed,  had  crept  so  quietly  out  again. 
Never  had  he  felt  so  restful,  so  much  at  home,  as  in 
that  little  common  coffin,  washed  as  he  was  to  an 
unnatural  whiteness,  and  wrapped  in  his  mother's 
only  spare  sheet.  Away  from  all  the  strife  of  men 
he  was  journeying  to  a  greater  peace.  His  little 
aloe-plant  had  flowered;  and,  between  the  open 
windows  of  the  only  carriage  he  had  ever  been 
inside,  the  wind — which,  who  knows?  he  had 
perhaps  become — stirred  the  fronds  of  fern  and 
the  flowers  of   his    funeral   wreath.     Thus    he    was 

281 


282  Fraternity 

going    from    that    world    where   all   men   were    his 
brothers. 

From  the  second  cab  the  same  wind  was  rigidly 
excluded,  and  there  was  silence,  broken  by  the  aged 
butler's  breathing.  Dressed  in  his  Newmarket  coat, 
he  was  recalling  with  a  certain  sense  of  luxury  past 
journeys  in  four-wheeled  cabs — occasions  when, 
seated  beside  a  box  corded  and  secured  with  sealing- 
wax,  he  had  taken  his  master's  plate  for  safety  to 
the  bank;  occasions  when,  under  a  roof  piled  up 
with  guns  and  boxes,  he  had  sat  holding  the  **  Honour- 
able Bateson's'*  dog;  occasions  when,  with  some 
young  person  by  his  side,  he  had  driven  at  the  tail 
of  a  baptismal,  nuptial,  or  funeral  cortege.  These 
memories  of  past  grandeur  came  back  to  him  with 
curious  poignancy,  and  for  some  reason  the  words 
kept  rising  in  his  mind:  *'For  richer  or  poorer,  for 
better  for  worse,  in  health  and  in  sick  places,  till 
death  do  us  part."  But  in  the  midst  of  the  exaltation 
of  these  recollections  the  old  heart  beneath  his  old 
red  flannel  chest-protector — that  companion  of  his 
exile — twittering  faintly  at  short  intervals,  made 
him  look  at  the  woman  by  his  side.  He  longed  to 
convey  to  her  some  little  of  the  satisfaction  he  felt 
in  the  fact  that  this  was  by  no  means  the  low  class 
of  funeral  it  might  have  been.  He  doubted  whether, 
with  her  woman's  mind,  she  was  getting  all  the 
comfort  she  could  out  of  three  four-wheeled  cabs 
and  a  wreath  of  lilies.  The  seamstress's  thin  face, 
with  its  pinched,  passive  look,  was  indeed  thinner, 
quieter,  than  ever.  What  she  was  thinking  of  he 
could  not  tell.  There  were  so  many  things  she  might 
be  thinking  of.     She,  too,  no  doubt,  had  seen  her 


Funeral  of  a  Baby  283 

grandeur,  if  but  in  the  solitary  drive  away  from  the 
church  where,  eight  years  ago,  she  and  Hughs  had 
listened  to  the  words  now  haunting  Creed.  Was 
she  thinking  of  that ;  of  her  lost  youth  and  comeliness, 
and  her  man's  dead  love;  of  the  long  descent  to 
shadowland;  of  the  other  children  she  had  buried; 
of  Hughs  in  prison;  of  the  girl  that  had  '*put  a 
spell  on  him";  or  only  of  the  last  precious  tugs  the 
tiny  lips  at  rest  in  the  first  four-wheeled  cab  had 
given  at  her  breast?  Or  was  she,  with  a  nicer  feeling 
for  proportion,  reflecting  that,  had  not  people  been 
so  kind,  she  might  have  had  to  walk  behind  a  funeral 
provided  by  the  parish? 

The  old  butler  could  not  tell,  but  he — whose  one 
desire  now,  coupled  with  the  wish  to  die  outside  a 
workhouse,  was  to  save  enough  to  bury  his  own 
body  without  the  interference  of  other  people — was 
inclined  to  think  she  must  be  dwelling  on  the  brighter 
side  of  things;  and,  designing  to  encourage  her,  he 
said:  ''Wonderful  improvement  in  these  'ere  four- 
wheel  cabs!  Oh  dear,  yes!  I  remember  of  them 
when  they  were  the  shadders  of  what  they  are  at  the 
present  time  of  speakin'." 

The  seamstress  answered  in  her  quiet  voice:  "Very 
comfortable  this  is.  Sit  still  Stanley!"  Her  little 
son,  whose  feet  did  not  reach  the  floor,  was  drumming 
his  heels  against  the  seat.  He  stopped  and  looked 
at  her,  and  the  old  butler  addressed  him. 

"You  '11  a-remember  of  this  occasion,"  he  said, 
"when  you  gets  older." 

The  little  boy  turned  his  black  eyes  from  his 
mother  to  him  who  had  spoken  last. 

"It's  a  beautiful  wreath,"  continued  Creed.     "I 


^84  Fraternity 

could  smell  of  it  all  the  way  up  the  stairs.  There  *s 
been  no  expense  spared;  there  's  white  laylock  in 
it — that  *s  a  class  of  flower  that  *s  very  extravagant/' 

A  train  of  thought  having  been  roused  too  strong 
for  his  discretion,  he  added:  "I  saw  that  young  girl 
yesterday.  She  came  interrogatin'  of  me  in  the 
street.'* 

On  Mrs.  Hughs 's  face,  where  till  now  expression 
had  been  buried,  came  such  a  look  as  one  may  see 
on  the  face  of  an  owl — hard,  watchful,  cruel;  harder, 
more  cruel  for  the  softness  of  the  big  dark  eyes. 

"She  'd  show  a  better  feeling,"  she  said,  "to  keep 
a  quiet  tongue.     Sit  still,  Stanley!" 

Once  more  the  little  boy  stopped  drumming  his 
heels,  and  shifted  his  stare  from  the  old  butler  back 
to  her  who  spoke.  The  cab,  which  had  seemed  to 
hesitate  and  start,  as  though  jibbing  at  something 
in  the  road,  resumed  its  ambling  pace.  Creed 
looked  through  the  well-closed  window.  There  before 
him,  so  long  that  it  seemed  to  have  no  end,  like  a 
building  in  a  nightmare,  stretched  that  place  where 
he  did  not  mean  to  end  his  days.  He  faced  towards 
the  horse  again.  The  colour  had  deepened  in  his 
nose.     He  spoke: 

"If  they'd  a-give  me  my  last  edition  earlier, 
'stead  of  sending  of  it  down  after  that  low-class 
feller  's  taken  all  my  customers,  that  'd  make  a 
difference  to  me  o'  two  shillin's  at  the  utmost  in 
the  week,  and  all  clear  savin's."  To  these  words, 
dark  with  hidden  meaning,  he  received  no  answer 
save  the  drumming  of  the  small  boy's  heels;  and, 
reverting  to  the  subject  he  had  been  distracted  from, 
he  murmured:   "She  was  a-wearin'  of  new  clothes." 


Funeral  of  a  Baby  285 

He  was  startled  by  the  fierce  tone  of  a  voice  he 
hardly  knew.  **I  don't  want  to  hear  about  her; 
she  's  not  for  decent  folk  to  talk  of.'* 

The  old  butler  looked  round  askance.  The  seam- 
stress was  trembling  violently.  Her  fierceness  at  such 
a  moment  shocked  him.    **  Dust  to  dust,"  he  thought. 

'* Don't  you  be  considerate  of  it,"  he  said  at  last, 
summoning  all  his  knowledge  of  the  world;  "she  '11 
come  to  her  own  place."  And  at  the  sight  of  a  slow 
tear  trickling  over  her  burning  cheek,  he  added 
hurriedly:  "  Think  of  your  baby — I  '11  see  yer  through. 
Sit  still,  little  boy — sit  still!  Ye  're  disturbin'  of 
your  mother." 

Once  more  the  little  boy  stayed  the  drumming  of 
his  heels  to  look  at  him  who  spoke;  and  the  closed 
cab  rolled  on  with  its  slow,  jingling  sound. 

In  the  third  four-wheeled  cab,  where  the  windows 
again  were  wide  open,  Martin  Stone,  with  his  hands 
thrust  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  coat,  and  his 
long  legs  crossed,  sat  staring  at  the  roof,  with  a  sort 
of  twisted  scorn  on  his  pale  face. 

Just  inside  the  gate,  through  which  had  passed  in 
their  time  so  many  dead  and  living  shadows,  Hilary 
stood  waiting.  He  could  probably  not  have  explained 
why  he  had  come  to  see  this  tiny  shade  committed 
to  the  earth — in  memory,  perhaps,  of  those  two 
minutes  when  the  baby's  eyes  had  held  parley  with 
his  own,  or  in  the  wish  to  pay  a  mute  respect  to  her 
on  whom  life  had  weighed  so  hard  of  late.  For 
whatever  reason  he  had  come,  he  was  keeping  quietly 
to  one  side.  And  unobserved,  he,  too,  had  his 
watcher — the  little  model,  sheltering  behind  a  tall 
grave. 


286  Fraternity 

Two  men  in  rusty  black  bore  the  little  coffin; 
then  came  the  white-robed  chaplain;  then  Mrs. 
Hughs  and  her  little  son;  close  behind,  his  head 
thrust  forward  with  trembling  movements  from 
side  to  side,  old  Mr.  Creed;  and,  last  of  all,  young 
Martin  Stone.  Hilary  joined  the  young  doctor.  So 
the  five  mourners  walked. 

Before  a  small  dark  hole  in  a  comer  of  the  cemetery 
they  stopped.  On  this  forest  of  unflowered  graves 
the  sun  was  falling;  the  east  wind,  with  its  faint 
reek,  touched  the  old  butler's  plastered  hair,  and 
brought  moisture  to  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  fixed 
with  absorption  on  the  chaplain.  Words  and  thoughts 
hunted  in  his  mind. 

"He's  gettin'  Christian  burial.  Who  gives  this 
woman  away?  I  do.  Ashes  to  ashes.  I  never 
suspected  him  of  livin'.'*  The  conning  of  the  burial 
service,  shortened  to  fit  the  passing  of  that  tiny 
shade,  gave  him  pleasurable  sensation;  films  came 
down  on  his  eyes;  he  listened  like  some  old  parrot 
on  its  perch,  his  head  a  little  to  one  side. 

*'Them  as  dies  young,"  he  thought,  **goes  straight 
to  heaven.  We  trusts  in  God — all  mortal  men;  his 
godfathers  and  his  godmothers  in  his  baptism.  Well, 
so  it  is!     I  'm  not  af eared  o'  death!" 

Seeing  the  little  coffin  tremble  above  the  hole,  he 
craned  his  head  still  further  forward.  It  sank;  a 
smothered  sobbing  rose.  The  old  butler  touched 
the  arm  in  front  of  him  with  shaking  fingers. 

"Don't  'e,"  he  whispered;   "he  's  a-gone  to  glory.*' 

But,  hearing  the  dry  rattle  of  the  earth,  he  took 
out  his  own  handkerchief  and  put  it  to  his  nose. 

"Yes,  he  *s  a-gone,"  he  thought;    "another  little 


Funeral  of  a  Baby  287 

baby.  Old  men  an*  maiden::,  young  men  an'  little 
children;  it  's  a-goin'  on  all  the  time.  Where  'e  is 
now  there  11  be  no  marryin',  no,  nor  givin'  out  in 
marriage;  till  death  do  us  part." 

The  wind,  sweeping  across  the  filled-in  hole, 
carried  the  rustle  of  his  husky  breathing,  the  dry, 
smothered  sobbing  of  the  seamstress,  out  across  the 
shadows'  graves,  to  those  places,  to  those  streets.  .  .  . 

From  the  baby's  funeral  Hilary  and  Martin  walked 
away  together,  and  far  behind  them,  across  the 
road,  the  little  model  followed.  For  some  time 
neither  spoke;  then  Hilary,  stretching  out  his  hand 
towards  a  squalid  alley,  said: 

**They  haunt  us  and  drag  us  down.  A  long,  dark 
passage.     Is  there  a  light  at  the  far  end,  Martin?'' 

**Yes,"  said  Martin  gruffly. 

"I  don't  see  it." 

Martin  looked  at  him. 

•'Hamlet!" 

Hilary  did  not  reply. 

The  young  man  watched  him  sideways.  **It  's  a 
disease  to  smile  like  that ! ' ' 

Hilary  ceased  to  smile.  **Cure  me,  then,"  he  said 
with  sudden  anger,  **you  man  of  health!" 

The  young  **Sanitist's"  sallow  cheeks  flushed. 
** Atrophy  of  the  nerve  of  action,"  he  muttered; 
** there  's  no  cure  for  that!" 

** Ah! "said  Hilary:  "All  kinds  of  us  want  social 
progress  in  our  different  ways.  You,  your  grandfather, 
my  brother,  myself — there  are  four  types  of  us. 
Will  you  tell  me  that  any  one  of  us  is  the  right  man 
for  the  job.  For  instance,  action  's  not  natural  to 
me. 


288  Fraternity 

"Any  act,"  answered  Martin,  **is  better  than  no 
act/* 

"And  myopia  is  natural  to  you,  Martin.  Your 
prescription  in  this  case  has  not  been  too  successful, 
has  it?" 

"I  can't  help  it  if  people  will  be  d — d  fools." 

"There  you  hit  it.  But  answer  me  this  question: 
Isn't  a  social  conscience,  broadly  speaking,  the 
result  of  comfort  and  security?" 

Martin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"And  doesn't  comfort  also  destroy  the  power  of 
action?" 

Again  Martin  shrugged. 

"Then,  if  those  who  have  the  social  conscience 
and  can  see  what  is  wrong,  have  lost  their  power  of 
action,  how  can  you  say  there  is  any  light  at  the  end 
of  this  dark  passage?" 

Martin  took  his  pipe  out,  filled  it,  and  pressed 
the  filling  with  his  thumb. 

"There  is  light,"  he  said  at  last,  "in  spite  of  all 
invertebrates.  Good-bye!  I  've  wasted  enough 
time,"  and  he  abruptly  strode  away. 

"And  in  spite  of  myopia!"  muttered  Hilary. 

A  few  minutes  later,  coming  out  from  Messrs. 
Rose  and  Thorn,  where  he  had  gone  to  buy  tobacco, 
he  came  suddenly  on  the  little  model,  evidently 
waiting. 

"I  was  at  the  funeral,"  she  said;  and  her  face 
added  plainly:  "I  Ve  followed  you."  Uninvited, 
she  walked  on  at  his  side. 

"This  is  not  the  same  girl,"  he  thought,  "that  I 
sent  away  five  days  ago.  She  has  lost  something, 
gained  something,     I  don't  know  her." 


Funeral  of  a  Baby  289 

There  seemed  such  a  stubborn  purpose  in  her  face 
and  manner.  It  was  like  the  look  in  a  dog*s  eyes 
that  says:  '*  Master,  you  thought  to  shut  me  up 
away  from  you;  I  know  now  what  that  is  like.  Do 
what  you  will,  I  mean  in  future  to  be  near  you." 

This  look,  by  its  simplicity,  frightened  one  to 
whom  the  primitive  was  strange.  Desiring  to  free 
himself  of  his  companion,  yet  not  knowing  how, 
Hilary  sat  down  in  Kensington  Gardens  on  the  first 
bench  they  came  to.  The  little  model  sat  down 
beside  him.  The  quiet  siege  laid  to  him  by  this 
girl  was  quite  tmcanny.  It  was  as  though  someone 
were  binding  him  with  toy  threads,  swelling  slowly 
into  rope  before  his  eyes.  In  this  fear  of  Hilary's 
there  was  at  first  much  irritation.  His  fastidiousness 
and  sense  of  the  ridiculous  were  roused.  What  did 
this  little  creature  with  whom  he  had  no  thoughts 
and  no  ideas  in  common,  whose  spirit  and  his  could 
never  hope  to  meet,  think  that  she  could  get  from 
him?  Was  she  trying  to  weave  a  spell  over  him, 
too,  with  her  mute,  stubborn  adoration.  Was  she 
trying  to  change  his  protective  weakness  for  her  to 
another  sort  of  weakness?  He  turned  and  looked; 
she  dropped  her  eyes  at  once,  and  sat  still  as  a  stone 
figure. 

As  in  her  spirit,  so  in  her  body,  she  was  different; 
her  limbs  looked  freer,  rounder;  her  breath  seemed 
stirring  her  more  deeply;  like  a  flower  of  early  June 
she  was  opening  before  his  very  eyes.  This,  though 
it  gave  him  pleasure,  also  added  to  his  fear.  The 
strange  silence,  in  its  utter  naturalness — for  what 
could  he  talk  about  with  her? — brought  home  to 
him  more  vividly  than  anything  before,  the  barriers 
19 


290  Fraternity 

of  class.  All  he  thought  of  was  how  not  to  be  ridic- 
ulous! She  was  inviting  him  in  some  strange,  un- 
conscious, subtle  way  to  treat  her  as  a  woman,  as 
though  in  spirit  she  had  linked  her  round  young 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  through  her  half-closed 
lips  were  whispering  the  eternal  call  of  sex  to  sex. 
And  he,  a  middle-aged  and  cultivated  man,  conscious 
of  everything,  could  not  even  speak  for  fear  of 
breaking  through  his  shell  of  delicacy.  He  hardly 
breathed,  disturbed  to  his  very  depths  by  the  young 
figure  sitting  by  his  side,  and  by  the  dread  of  showing 
that  disturbance. 

Beside  the  cultivated  plant  the  self-sown  poppy 
rears  itself;  round  the  stem  of  a  smooth  tree  the 
honeysuckle  twines;  to  a  trim  wall  the  ivy  clings. 

In  her  new-found  form  and  purpose  this  girl  had 
gained  a  strange,  still  power;  she  no  longer  felt  it 
mattered  whether  he  spoke  or  looked  at  her;  her 
instinct,  piercing  through  his  shell,  was  certain  of 
the  throbbing  of  his  pulses,  the  sweet  poison  in  his 
blood. 

The  perception  of  this  still  power,  more  than  all 
else,  brought  fear  to  Hilary.  He  need  not  speak; 
she  would  not  care!  He  need  not  even  look  at  her; 
she  had  but  to  sit  there  silent,  motionless,  with  the 
breath  of  youth  coming  through  her  parted  lips,  and 
the  light  of  youth  stealing  through  her  half-closed 
eyes. 

And  abruptly  he  got  up  and  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

SWAN  SONG 

THE  new  wine,  if  it  does  not  break  the  old  bottle, 
after  fierce  effervescence  seethes  and  bubbles 
quietly. 

It  was  so  in  Mr.  Stone's  old  bottle,  hour  by  hour 
and  day  by  day,  throughout  the  month.  A  pinker, 
robuster  look  came  back  to  his  cheeks;  his  blue  eyes, 
fixed  on  distance,  had  in  them  more  light;  his  knees 
regained  their  powers;  he  bathed,  and,  all  unknown  to 
him,  for  he  only  saw  the  waters  he  cleaved  with  his 
ineffably  slow  stroke,  Hilary  and  Martin,  on  alternate 
weeks,  and  keeping  at  a  proper  distance,  for  fear  he 
should  see  them  doing  him  a  service,  attended  at 
that  function  in  case  Mr.  Stone  should  again  remain 
too  long  seated  at  the  bottom  of  the  Serpentine. 
Each  morning  after  his  cocoa  and  porridge  he  could 
be  heard  sweeping  out  his  room  with  extraordinary 
vigour,  and  as  ten  o'clock  came  near  any  one  who 
listened  would  remark  a  sound  of  air  escaping,  as 
he  moved  up  and  down  on  his  toes  in  preparation  for 
the  labours  of  the  day.  No  letters,  of  course,  nor 
any  newspapers  disturbed  the  supreme  and  perfect 
self-containment  of  this  life  devoted  to  Fraternity 
— no  letters,  partly  because  he  lacked  a  known  address, 
partly  because  for  years  he  had  not  answered  them; 
and  with  regard  to  newspapers,   once  a  month  he 

went  to  a  Public  Library,  and  could  be  seen  with  th€ 

291 


292  Fraternity 

last  four  numbers  of  two  weekly  reviews  before  him, 
making  himself  acquainted  with  the  habits  of  those 
days,  and  moving  his  lips  as  though  in  prayer.  At 
ten  each  morning  any  one  in  the  corridor  outside  his 
room  was  startled  by  the  whirr  of  an  alarum  clock; 
perfect  silence  foil  owed ;  then  rose  a  sound  of  shuffling, 
whistling,  rustling,  broken  by  sharply  muttered 
words;  soon  from  this  turbid  lake  of  sound  the  articu- 
late thin  fluting  of  an  old  man's  voice  streamed 
forth.  This,  alternating  with  the  squeak  of  a  quill 
pen,  went  on  till  the  alarum  clock  once  more  went  off. 
Then  he  who  stood  outside  could  smell  that  Mr. 
Stone  would  shortly  eat ;  if,  stimulated  by  that  scent, 
he  entered,  he  might  see  the  author  of  the  Book  of 
Universal  Brotherhood  with  a  baked  potato  in  one 
hand  and  a  cup  of  hot  milk  in  the  other;  on  the  table, 
too,  the  ruined  forms  of  eggs,  tomatoes,  oranges, 
bananas,  figs,  prunes,  cheese,  and  honeycomb,  which 
had  passed  into  other  forms  already,  together  with  a 
loaf  of  wholemeal  bread.  Mr.  Stone  would  presently 
emerge  in  his  cottage-woven  tweeds,  and  old  hat  of 
green-black  felt;  or,  if  wet,  in  a  long  coat  of  yellow 
gaberdine,  and  sou '-wester  cap  of  the  same  material; 
but  always  with  a  little  osier  fruit-bag  in  his  hand. 
Thus  equipped,  he  walked  down  to  Rose  and  Thorn's, 
entered,  and  to  the  first  man  he  saw  handed  the 
osier  fruit-bag,  some  coins,  and  a  little  book  containing 
seven  leaves,  headed  "Food:  Monday,  Tuesday, 
Wednesday,"  and  so  forth.  He  then  stood  looking 
through  the  pickles  in  some  jar  or  other  at  things 
beyond,  with  one  hand  held  out,  fingers  upwards, 
awaiting  the  return  of  his  little  osier  fruit-bag. 
Feeling  presently  that  it  had  been  restored  to  him,  he 


Swan  Song  293 

would  turn  and  walk  out  of  the  shop.  Behind  his 
back,  on  the  face  of  the  department,  the  same  pro- 
tecting smile  always  rose.  Long  habit  had  perfected 
it.  All  now  felt  that,  though  so  very  different  from 
themselves,  this  aged  customer  was  dependent  on 
them.  By  not  one  single  farthing  or  one  pale  slip 
of  cheese  would  they  have  defrauded  him  for  all  the 
treasures  of  the  moon,  and  any  new  salesman  who 
laughed  at  that  old  client  was  promptly  told  to 
*'shut  his  head." 

Mr.  Stone's  frail  form,  bent  somewhat  to  one  side 
by  the  increased  gravamen  of  the  osier  bag,  was  now 
seen  moving  homewards.  He  arrived  perhaps  ten 
minutes  before  the  three  o'clock  alarum,  and  soon 
passing  through  preliminary  chaos,  the  articulate,  thin 
fluting  of  his  voice  streamed  forth  again,  broken  by 
the  squeaking  and  spluttering  of  his  quill. 

But  towards  four  o'clock  signs  of  cerebral  excite- 
ment became  visible;  his  lips  would  cease  to  utter 
sounds,  his  pen  to  squeak.  His  face,  with  a  flushed 
forehead,  would  appear  at  the  open  window.  As 
soon  as  the  little  model  came  in  sight — her  eyes  fixed 
not  on  his  window,  but  on  Hilary's — he  turned  his 
back,  evidently  waiting  for  her  to  enter  by  the  door. 
His  first  words  were  uttered  in  a  tranquil  voice:  "I 
have  several  pages.  I  have  placed  your  chair.  Are 
you  ready  ?     Follow ! '  * 

Except  for  that  strange  tranquillity  of  voice  and  the 
disappearance  of  the  flush  on  his  brow,  there  was  no 
sign  of  the  rejuvenescence  that  she  brought,  of  such 
refreshment  as  steals  on  the  traveller  who  sits  down 
beneath  a  lime-tree  toward  the  end  of  a  long  day's 
journey;  no  sign  of  the  mysterious  comfort  distilled 


294  Fraternity 

into  his  veins  by  the  sight  of  her  moody  young  face, 
her  young,  soft  limbs.  So,  from  some  stimulant  men 
very  near  their  end  will  draw  energy,  watching,  as 
it  were,  a  shape  beckoning  them  forward,  till  sud- 
denly it  disappears  in  darkness. 

In  the  quarter  of  an  hour  sacfed  to  their  tea  and 
conversation  he  never  noticed  that  she  was  always 
listening  for  sounds  beyond ;  it  was  enough  that  in  her 
presence  he  felt  singleness  of  purpose  strong  within 
him. 

When  she  had  gone,  moving  languidly,  moodily 
away,  her  eyes  darting  about  for  signs  of  Hilary,  Mr. 
Stone  would  sit  down  rather  suddenly  and  fall  asleep, 
to  dream,  perhaps,  of  Youth — Youth  with^  its  scent 
of  sap,  its  close  beckonings;  Youth  with  its  hopes  and 
fears;  Youth  that  hovers  round  us  so  long  after  it  is 
dead!  His  spirit  would  smile  behind  its  covering — 
that  thin  china  of  his  face;  and,  as  dogs  hunting  in 
their  sleep  work  their  feet,  so  he  worked  the  fingers 
resting  on  his  woollen  knees. 

The  seven  o'clock  alarum  woke  him  to  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  evening  meal.  This  eaten,  he  began  once 
more  to  pace  up  and  down,  to  pour  words  out  into  the 
silence,  and  to  drive  his  squeaking  quill. 

So  was  being  written  a  book  such  as  the  world  had 
never  seen! 

But  the  girl  who  came  so  moodily  to  bring  him  re- 
freshment, and  went  so  moodily  away,  never  in  these 
days  caught  a  glimpse  of  that  which  she  was  seeking. 

Since  the  morning  when  he  had  left  her  abruptly, 
Hilary  had  made  a  point  of  being  out  in  the  afternoons 
and  not  returning  till  past  six  o'clock.  By  this  device 
he  put  off  facing  her  and  himself,  for  he  could  no 


Swan  Song  295 

longer  refuse  to  see  that  he  had  himself  to  face.  In 
the  few  minutes  of  utter  silence  when  the  girl  sat  be- 
side him,  magnetic,  quivering  with  awakening  force, 
he  had  found  that  the  male  in  him  was  far  from  dead. 
It  was  no  longer  vague,  sensuous  feeling ;  it  was  warm, 
definite  desire.  The  more  she  was  in  his  thoughts,  the 
less  spiritual  his  feeling  for  this  girl  of  the  people 
had  become. 

In  those  days  he  seemed  much  changed  to  such  as 
knew  him  well.  Instead  of  the  delicate,  detached, 
slightly  humorous  suavity  which  he  had  accustomed 
people  to  expect  from  him,  the  dry  kindliness  which 
seemed  at  once  to  check  confidence  and  yet  to  say, 
"If  you  choose  to  tell  me  anything,  I  should  never 
think  of  passing  judgment  on  you,  whatever  you  have 
done'* — instead  of  that  rather  abstracted,  faintly 
quizzical  air,  his  manner  had  become  absorbed  and 
gloomy.  He  seemed  to  jib  away  from  his  friends. 
His  manner  at  the  *'Pen  and  Ink*'  was  wholly  unsatis- 
fying to  men  who  liked  to  talk.  He  was  known  tc 
be  writing  a  new  book ;  they  suspected  him  of  having 
**got  into  a  hat'* — this  Victorian  expression,  found 
by  Mr.  Balladyce  in  some  chronicle  of  post-Thacker- 
ayan  manners,  and  revived  by  him  in  his  incomparable 
way,  as  who  should  say,  "  What  delicious  expressions 
those  good  bourgeois  had!"  now  flourished  in  second 
childhood. 

In  truth,  Hilary's  difficulty  with  his  new  book  was 
merely  the  one  of  not  being  able  to  work  at  it  at  all. 
Even  the  housemaid  who  "  did  **  his  study  noticed  that 
day  after  day  she  was  confronted  by  Chapter  XXIV,, 
in  spite  of  her  master *s  staying  in,  as  usual,  every 
morning. 


296  Fraternity 

The  change  in  his  manner  and  face,  which  had  grown 
strained  and  harassed,  had  been  noticed  by  Bianca, 
though  she  would  have  died  sooner  than  admit  she 
had  noticed  anything  about  him.  It  was  one  of  those 
periods  in  the  lives  of  households  like  an  hour  of  a 
late  summer's  day — brooding,  electric,  as  yet  quiescent, 
but  charged  with  the  currents  of  coming  storms. 

Twice  only  in  those  weeks  while  Hughs  was  in 
prison  did  Hilary  see  the  girl.  Once  he  met  her  when 
he  was  driving  home;  she  blushed  crimson  and  her 
eyes  lighted  up.  And  one  morning,  too,  he  passed 
her  on  the  bench  where  they  had  sat  together.  She 
was  staring  straight  before  her,  the  corners  of  her 
month  drooping  discontentedly.     She  did  not  see  him. 

To  a  man  like  Hilary — for  whom  running  after 
s^  /  women  had  been  about  the  last  occupation  in  the 
\  world,  who  had,  in  fact,  always  fought  shy  of  them  and 
imagined  that  they  would  always  fight  shy  of  him — 
\  there  was  an  unusual  enticement  and  dismay  in 
the  feeling  that  a  young  girl  really  was  pursuing 
him.  It  was  at  once  too  good,  too  unlikely,  and  too 
embarrassing  to  be  true.  His  sudden  feeling  for  her 
was  the  painful  sensation  of  one  who  sees  a  ripe 
nectarine  hanging  within  reach.  He  dreamed  con- 
tinually of  stretching  out  his  hand,  and  so  he  did  not 
dare,  or  thought  he  did  not  dare,  to  pass  that  way. 
All  this  did  not  favour  the  tenor  of  a  studious, 
introspective  life ;  it  also  brought  a  sense  of  unreality 
•  that  made  him  avoid  his  best  friends. 

This,  partly,  was  why  Stephen  came  to  see  him  on 
Sunday,  his  other  reason  for  the  visit  being  the  cal- 
culation that  Hughs  would  be  released  on  the  follow- 
ing Wednesday. 


Swan  Song  297 

"This  girl,"  he  thought,  *'is  going  to  the  house 
still,  and  Hilary  will  let  things  drift  till  he  can't 
stop  them,  and  there  11  be  a  real  mess/' 

The  fact  of  the  man's  having  been  in  prison  gave  a 
sinister  turn  to  an  affair  regarded  hitherto  as  merely 
sordid  by  Stephen's  orderly  and  careful  mind. 

Crossing  the  garden,  he  heard  Mr.  Stone's  voice 
issuing  through  the  open  window. 

"Can't  the  old  crank  stop  even  on  Simdays?'* 
he  thought. 

He  found  Hilary  in  his  study,  reading  a  book  on  the 
civilisation  of  the  Maccabees,  in  preparation  for  a 
review.     He  gave  Stephen  but  a  dubious  welcome. 

Stephen  broke  ground  gently. 

**  We  have  n't  seen  you  for  an  age.  I  hear  our  old 
friend  at  it.  Is  he  working  double  tides  to  finish  his 
magnum  opus?  I  thought  he  observed  the  day  of 
rest." 

"He  does  as  a  rule,"  said  Hilary. 

"Well,  he  's  got  the  girl  there  now  dictating." 

Hilary  winced.  Stephen  continued  with  greater 
circumspection: 

"You  could  n't  get  the  old  boy  to  finish  by  Wednes- 
day I  suppose?     He  must  be  quite  near  the  end  by 


now." 


The  notion  of  Mr.  Stone's  finishing  his  book  by 
Wednesday  procured  a  pale  smile  from  Hilary. 

"Could  you  get  your  Law  Courts,*'  he  said,  "to 
settle  up  the  affairs  of  mankind  for  good  and  all  by 
Wednesday?" 

"By  Jove!  Is  it  as  bad  as  that?  I  thought,  at 
any  rate,  he  must  be  meaning  to  finish  some 
day." 


298  Fraternity 

*'When  men  are  brothers/'  said  Hilary,  "he  will 
finish." 

Stephen  whistled. 

*'Look  here,  dear  boy!"  he  said,  "that  ruffian  comes 
out  on  Wednesday.  The  whole  thing  will  begin  over 
again.'* 

Hilary  rose  and  paced  the  room.  "I  refuse,"  he 
said  "to  consider  Hughs  a  ruffian.  What  do  we 
know  about  him,  or  any  of  them?" 

"Precisely!    What  do  we  know  of  this  girl?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  discuss  that,"  Hilary  said 
shortly. 

For  a  moment  the  faces  of  the  two  brothers  wore 
a  hard,  hostile  look,  as  though  the  deep  difference 
between  their  characters  had  at  last  got  the  better  of 
their  loyalty.  They  both  seemed  to  recognise  this, 
for  they  turned  their  heads  away. 

"I  just  wanted  to  remind  you,"  Stephen  said, 
**thoagh  you  know  your  own  business  best,  of 
course."  And  at  Hilary's  nod  he  thought:  "That  's 
just  exactly  what  he  does  n't ! " 

He  soon  left,  conscious  of  an  unwonted  awkward- 
ness in  his  brother's  presence.  Hilary  watched  him 
out  through  the  wicket  gate,  then  sat  down  on  the 
solitary  garden  bench. 

Stephen's  visit  had  merely  awakened  perverse 
desires  in  him. 

Strong  sunlight  was  falling  on  that  little  London 
garden,  disclosing  its  native  shadowiness;  streaks  and 
smudges  such  as  Life  smears  over  the  faces  of  those 
who  live  too  consciously.  Hilary,  beneath  the  acacia- 
tree  not  yet  in  bloom,  marked  an  early  butterfly 
flitting  over  the  geraniums  blossoming  round  an  old 


Swan  Song  299 

sundial.  Blackbirds  were  holding  evensong;  the 
late  perfume  of  the  lilac  came  stealing  forth  into 
air  faintly  smeethed  with  chimney  smoke.  There 
was  brightness,  but  no  glory,  in  that  little  garden; 
scent,  but  no  strong  air  blown  across  golden  lakes  of 
buttercups,  from  seas  of  springing  clover,  or  the 
wind-silver  of  young  wheat ;  music,  but  no  full  choir 
of  sound,  no  hum.  Like  the  face  and  figure  of  its 
master,  so  was  this  little  garden,  whose  sundial  the 
sun  seldom  reached — refined,  self-conscious,  intro- 
spective, obviously  a  creature  of  the  town.  At  that 
moment,  indeed,  Hilary  was  not  looking  quite  him- 
self; his  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes  angry,  almost 
as  if  he  had  been  a  man  of  action. 

The  voice  of  Mr.  Stone  was  still  audible,  fitfully 
quavering  out  into  the  air,  and  the  old  man  himself 
could  now  and  then  be  seen  holding  up  his  manu- 
script, his  profile  clear  cut  against  the  darkness  of  the 
room.     A  sentence  travelled  out  across  the  garden: 

**  'Amidst  the  tur-bu-lent  dis-cov-eries  of  those 
days,  which,  like  cross-currented  and  multi-billowed 
seas,  lapped  and  hollowed  every  rock '  ** 

A  motor-car  dashing  past  drowned  the  rest,  and 
when  the  voice  rose  again  it  was  evidently  dictating 
another  paragraph. 

**  'In  those  places,  in  those  streets,  the  shadows 
swarmed,  whispering  and  droning  like  a  hive  of  dying 
bees,  who,  their  honey  eaten,  wander  through  the 
winter  day  seeking  flowers  that  are  frozen  and  dead.'  '' 

A  great  bee  that  had  been  busy  with  the  lilac  began 
to  circle,  booming,  round  his  hair.  Suddenly  Hilary 
saw  him  raise  both  his  arms. 

**  'In  huge  congeries,  crowded,  devoid  of  light  and 


300  Fraternity 

air,  they  were  assembled,  these  bloodless  imprints 
from  forms  of  higher  caste.  They  lay,  like  the  re- 
flection of  leaves  which,  fluttering  free  in  the  sweet 
winds,  let  fall  to  the  earth  wan  resemblances.  Im- 
ponderous,  dark  ghosts,  wandering  ones  chained  to 
the  ground,  they  had  no  hope  of  any  Lovely  City,  nor 
knew  whence  they  had  come.  Men  cast  them  on  the 
pavements  and  marched  on.  They  did  not  in  Uni- 
versal Brotherhood  clasp  their  shadows  to  sleep  within 
their  hearts — for  the  sun  was  not  then  at  noon,  when 
no  man  has  a  shadow.'  " 

As  those  words  of  swan  song  died  away  he  swayed 
and  trembled,  and  suddenly  disappeared,  below  the 
sight-line,  as  if  he  had  sat  down.  The  little  model  took 
his  place  in  the  open  window.  She  started  at  seeing 
Hilary;  then,  motionless,  stood  gazing  at  him.  Out 
of  the  gloom  of  the  opening  her  eyes  were  all  pupil,  two 
spots  of  the  surrounding  darkness  imprisoned  in  a 
face  as  pale  as  any  flower.  As  rigid  as  the  girl  herself, 
Hilary  looked  up  at  her. 

A  voice  behind  him  said:  **How  are  you?  I 
thought  I  'd  give  my  car  a  run."  Mr.  Purcey  was 
coming  from  the  gate,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  window 
where  the  girl  stood.     **  How  is  your  wife  ? "  he  added. 

The  bathos  of  this  visit  roused  an  acid  fury  in 
Hilary.  He  surveyed  Mr.  Purcey's  figure  from  his 
cloth-topped  boots  to  his  tall  hat,  and  said:  "Shall 
we  go  in  and  find  her  ** 

As  they  went  along  Mr.  Purcey  said:  "That  's 
the  young — the — er — model  I  met  in  your  wife's 
studio,  is  n't  it?     Pretty  girl!" 

Hilary  compressed  his  lips. 

"Now  what  sort  of  living  do  those  girls  make?** 


Swan  Song  301 

pursued  Mr.  Purcey.  **I  suppose  they've  most  of 
them  other  resources.     Eh,  what?" 

**They  make  the  living  God  will  let  them,  I  suppose, 
as  other  people  do.** 

Mr.  Purcey  gave  him  a  sharp  look.  It  was  almost 
as  if  Dallison  had  meant  to  snub  him. 

**0h,  exactly!  I  should  think  this  girl  would  have 
no  difficulty. ' '  And  suddenly  he  saw  a  curious  change 
come  over  *'that  writing  fellow,**  as  he  always  after- 
wards described  Hilary.  Instead  of  a  mild,  pleasant 
looking  chap  enough,  he  had  become  a  regular  cold 
devil. 

**My  wife  appears  to  be  out,**  Hilary  said.  "I 
also  have  an  engagement.** 

In  his  surprise  and  anger  Mr.  Purcey  said  with  great 
simplicity:  ** Sorry  I  *m  de  trop!''  and  soon  his  car 
could  be  heard  bearing  him  away  with  some  un- 
necessary noise. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

BEHIND  BIANCA's  VEIL 

BUT  Bianca  was  not  out.  She  had  been  a  witness 
of  Hilary's  long  look  at  the  little  model.  Coming 
from  her  studio  through  the  glass  passage  to  the 
house,  she  could  not,  of  course,  see  what  he  was  gaz- 
ing at,  but  she  knew  as  well  as  if  the  girl  had  stood 
before  her  in  the  dark  opening  of  the  window.  Hating 
herself  for  having  seen,  she  went  to  her  room  and  lay 
on  her  bed  with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  eyes.  She 
was  used  to  loneliness — that  necessary  lot  of  natures 
such  as  hers ;  but  the  bitter  isolation  of  this  hour  was 
such  as  to  drive  even  her  lonely  nature  to  despair. 

She  rose  at  last,  and  repaired  the  ravages  made  in 
her  face  and  dress,  lest  any  one  should  see  that  she 
was  suffering.  Then,  first  making  sure  that  Hilary 
had  left  the  garden,  she  stole  out. 

She  wandered  towards  Hyde  Park.  It  was  Whit- 
suntide, a  time  of  fear  to  the  cultivated  Londoner. 
The  town  seemed  all  arid  jollity  and  paper  bags 
whirled  on  a  dusty  wind.  People  swarmed  everywhere 
in  clothes  which  did  not  suit  them ;  desultory,  dead- 
tired  creatures  who,  in  these  few  green  hours  of  leisure 
out  of  the  sandy  eternity  of  their  toil,  were  not  suffered 
to  rest,  but  were  whipped  on  by  starved  instincts  to 
hunt  pleasures  which  they  longed  for  too  dreadfully 
to  overtake. 

Bianca   passed   an   old   tramp   asleep   beneath   a 

302 


Behind  Bianca's  Veil  303 

tree.  His  clothes  had  clung  to  him  so  long  and 
lovingly  that  they  were  falling  off,  but  his  face  was 
calm  as  though  masked  with  the  finest  wax.  For- 
gotten were  his  sores  and  sorrows ;  he  was  in  the  blessed 
fields  of  sleep. 

Bianca  hastened  away  from  the  sight  of  such  utter 
peace.  She  wandered  into  a  grove  of  trees  that  had 
almost  eluded  the  notice  of  the  crowd.  They  were 
limes,  guarding  still  within  them  their  honey  bloom. 
Their  branches  of  light,  broad  leaves,  near  heart- 
shaped,  were  spread  out  like  wide  skirts.  The 
tallest  of  these  trees,  a  beautiful,  gay  creature,  stood 
tremulous,  like  a  mistress  waiting  for  her  tardy 
lover.  What  joy  she  seemed  to  promise,  what  delicate 
enticement,  with  every  veined  quivering  leaf!  And 
suddenly  the  sun  caught  hold  of  her,  raised  her  up 
to  him,  kissed  her  all  over;  she  gave  forth  a  sigh  of 
happiness,  as  though  her  very  spirit  had  travelled 
through  her  lips  up  to  her  lover's  heart. 

A  woman  in  a  lilac  frock  came  stealing  through 
the  trees  towards  Bianca,  and  sitting  down  not  far 
off,  kept  looking  quickly  round  under  her  sunshade. 

Presently  Bianca  saw  what  she  was  looking  for.  A 
young  man  in  black  coat  and  shining  hat  came  swiftly 
up  and  touched  her  shoulder.  Half  hidden  by  the 
foliage  they  sat,  leaning  forward,  prodding  gently  at 
the  ground  with  stick  and  parasol;  the  stealthy 
murmur  of  their  talk,  so  soft  and  intimate  that  no 
word  was  audible,  stole  across  the  grass;  and  secretly 
he  touched  her  hand  and  arm.  They  were  not  of 
the  holiday  crowd,  and  had  evidently  chosen  out  this 
vulgar  afternoon  for  a  stolen  meeting. 

Bianca  rose  and  hurried  on  amongst  the  trees; 


304  Fraternity 

She  left  the  Park.  In  the  streets  many  couples,  not 
so  careful  to  conceal  their  intimacy,  were  parading 
arm-in-arm.  The  sight  of  them  did  not  sting  her 
like  the  sight  of  those  lovers  in  the  Park;  they  were 
not  of  her  own  order.  But  presently  she  saw  a  little 
boy  and  girl  asleep  on  the  doorstep  of  a  mansion, 
with  their  cheeks  pressed  close  together  and  their 
arms  round  each  other,  and  again  she  hurried  on. 
In  the  course  of  that  long  wandering  she  passed 
the  building  which  ''Westminister*'  was  so  anxious 
to  avoid.  In  its  gateway  an  old  couple  were  just 
about  to  separate,  one  to  the  men's,  the  other  to  the 
women's  quarters.  Their  toothless  mouths  were  close 
together.  **  Well,  good-night,  mother ! "  "  Good-night, 
father,  good-night — take  care  o'  yourself!" 

Once  more  Bianca  hurried  on. 

It  was  past  nine  when  she  turned  into  the  Old 
Square,  and  rang  the  bell  of  her  sister's  house  with  the 
sheer  physical  desire  to  rest — somewhere  that  was 
not  her  home. 

At  one  end  of  the  long,  low  drawing-room  Stephen, 
in  evening  dress,  was  reading  aloud  from  a  review. 
Cecilia  was  looking  dubiously  at  his  sock,  where  she 
seemed  to  see  a  tiny  speck  of  white  that  might  be 
Stephen.  In  the  window  at  the  far  end  Thyme 
and  Martin  were  exchanging  speeches  at  short  in- 
tervals; they  made  no  move  at  Bianca's  entrance; 
and  their  faces  said:  "We  have  no  use  for  that  hand- 
shaking nonsense!" 

Receiving  Cecilia's  little,  warm,  doubting  kiss 
and  Stephen's  polite,  dry  handshake,  Bianca  motioned 
to  him  not  to  stop  reading.  He  resumed.  Cecilia, 
too,  resumed  her  scrutiny  of  Stephen's  sock. 


Behind  Bianca's  Veil  305 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  thought.  "I  know  B. 's  come 
here  because  she  *s  unhappy.  Poor  thing!  Poor 
Hilary!  It  *s  that  wretched  business  again,  I  suppose." 

Skilled  in  every  tone  of  Stephen's  voice,  she  knew 
that  Bianca's  entry  had  provoked  the  same  train 
of  thought  in  him;  to  her  he  seemed  reading  out  these 
words:  "I  disapprove — I  disapprove.  She's  Cis's 
sister.  But  if  it  wasn't  for  old  Hilary  I  wouldn't 
have  the  subject  in  the  house!" 

Bianca,  whose  subtlety  recorded  every  shade  of 
feeling,  could  see  that  she  was  not  welcome.  Leaning 
back  with  veil  raised,  she  seemed  listening  to  Stephen's 
reading,  but  in  fact  she  was  quivering  at  the  sight  of 
those  two  couples. 

Couples,  couples — for  all  but  her!  What  crime 
had  she  committed?  Why  was  the  china  of  her  cup 
flawed  so  that  no  one  could  drink  from  it  ?  Why  had 
she  been  made  so  that  nobody  could  love  her.?  This, 
the  most  bitter  of  all  thoughts,  the  most  tragic  of  all 
questionings,  haunted  her. 

The  article  which  Stephen  read— explaining  ex- 
actly how  to  deal  with  people  so  that  from  one  sort  of 
human  being  they  might  become  another,  and  going 
on  to  prove  that  if,  after  this  conversion,  they 
showed  signs  of  a  reversion,  it  would  then  be  necessary 
to  know  the  reason  why — fell  dryly  on  ears  listening 
to  that  eternal  question:  Why  is  it  with  me  as  it  is? 
It  is  not  fair! — listening  to  the  constant  murmuring 
of  her  pride:  I  am  not  wanted  here  or  anywhere. 
Better  to  efface  myself! 

From  their  end  of  the  room  Thyme  and  Martin 
scarcely  looked  at  her.  To  them  she  was  Aunt  B., 
an  amateur,  the  mockery  of  whose  eyes  sometimes 


»o 


3o6  Fraternity 

penetrated  their  youthful  armour;  they  were  besides 
too  interested  in  their  conversation  to  perceive  that 
she  was  suffering.  The  skirmish  of  that  conversation 
had  lasted  now  for  many  days — ever  since  the  death 
of  the  Hughs  baby. 

"  Well/*  Martin  was  saying,  "  what  are  you  going  to 
do?  It  's  no  good  to  base  it  on  the  baby;  you  must 
know  your  own  mind  all  round.  You  can't  go 
rushing  into  real  work  on  mere  sentiment.*' 

"  You  went  to  the  funeral,  Martin.  It 's  bosh  to 
say  you  did  n*t  feel  it  too!** 

Martin  deigned  no  answer  to  this  insinuation. 

"We*ve  gone  past  the  need  for  sentiment,**  he 
said:  "it  *s  exploded;  so  is  Justice,  administered  by 
an  upper  class  with  a  patch  over  one  eye,  and  a  squint 
in  the  other.  When  you  see  a  dying  donkey  in  a 
field — you  don't  want  to  refer  the  case  to  a  society, 
as  your  dad  would ;  you  don't  want  an  essay  of  Hilary's 
full  of  sympathy  with  everybody,  on  'Walking  in 
a  field :  with  reflections  on  the  end  of  donkeys  * — you 
want  to  put  a  bullet  in  the  donkey.** 

"You*re  always  down  on  Uncle  Hilary,*'  said 
Thyme. 

"  I  don*t  mind  Hilary  himself;  I  object  to  his  type.** 

"Well,  he  objects  to  yours,**  said  Thyme. 

"I*m  not  so  sure  of  that,'*  said  Martin  slowly; 
"  he  has  n't  got  character  enough.*' 

Thyme  raised  her  chin,  and,  looking  at  him  through 
half-closed  eyes,  said:  "Well,  I  do  think,  of  all  the 
conceited  persons  I  ever  met  you  *re  the  worst.*' 

Martin's  nostril  curled. 

"  Are  you  prepared,"  said  he,  "  to  put  a  bullet  in  the 
donkey,  or  are  you  not?" 


Behind  Bianca's  Veil  307 

"I  only  see  one  donkey,  and  not  a  dying  one!" 

Martin  stretched  out  his  hand  and  gripped  her  arm 
below  the  elbow.  Retaining  it  luxuriously,  he  said: 
"Don't  wander!*' 

Thyme  tried  to  free  her  arm.     "  Let  go!" 

Martin  was  looking  straight  into  her  eyes.  A  flush 
had  risen  in  his  cheeks. 

Thyme,  too,  went  the  colour  of  the  old-rose  curtain 
behind  which  she  sat. 

"Let  go!" 

"  I  won't!  I  '11  make  you  know  your  mind.  What 
do  you  mean  to  do  ?  Are  you  coming  in  a  fit  of  senti- 
ment, or  do  you  mean  business?" 

Suddenly,  half-hypnotised,  the  young  girl  ceased 
to  struggle.  Her  face  had  the  strangest  expression 
of  submission  and  defiance — a  sort  of  pain,  a  sort  of 
delight.  So  they  sat  full  half  a  minute  staring  at 
each  other's  eyes.  Hearing  a  rustling  sound,  they 
looked,  and  saw  Bianca  moving  to  the  door.  Cecilia, 
too,  had  risen. 

"What  is  it,  B.?" 

Bianca,  opening  the  door,  went  out.  Cecilia  fol- 
lowed swiftly,  too  late  to  catch  even  a  glimpse  of  her 
sister's  face  behind  the  veil.  ... 

In  Mr.  Stone's  room  the  green  lamp  burned  dimly, 
and  he  who  worked  by  it  was  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  his  camp-bed,  attired  in  his  old  brown  woollen 
gown  and  slippers. 

And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  not 
alone. 

"I  have  finished  for  to-night,"  he  said.  "I  am 
waiting  for  the  moon  to  rise.  She  is  nearly  full;  I 
shall  see  her  face  from  here." 


3o8  Fraternity 

A  form  sat  down  by  him  on  the  bed,  and  a  voice 
said  softly: 

"  Like  a  woman's." 

Mr.  Stone  saw  his  younger  daughter.  "  You  have 
your  hat  on.    Are  you  going  out,  my  dear?" 

"  I  saw  your  light  as  I  came  in." 

"The  moon,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  "is  an  arid  desert. 
Love  is  unknown  there." 

" How  can  you  bear  to  look  at  her,  then?"  Bianca 
whispered. 

Mr.  Stone  raised  his  finger.     "She  has  risen." 

The  wan  moon  had  slipped  out  into  the  darkness. 
Her  light  stole  across  the  garden  and  through  the 
open  window  to  the  bed  where  they  were  sitting. 

"Where  there  is  no  love,  Dad,"  Bianca  said, 
"there  can  be  no  life,  can  there?" 

Mr.  Stone's  eyes  seemed  to  drink  the  moon- 
light. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  the  great  truth.  The  bed  is 
shaking!" 

With  her  arms  pressed  tight  across  her  breast, 
Bianca  was  struggling  with  violent,  noiseless  sobbing. 
That  desperate  struggle  seemed  to  be  tearing  her  to 
death  before  his  eyes,  and  Mr.  Stone  sat  silent, 
trembling.  He  knew  not  what  to  do.  From  his 
frosted  heart  years  of  Universal  Brotherhood  had 
taken  all  knowledge  of  how  to  help  his  daughter. 
He  could  only  sit  touching  her  tremulously  with 
thin  fingers. 

The  form  beside  him,  whose  warmth  he  felt  against 
his  arm,  grew  stiller,  as  though,  in  spite  of  its  own 
loneliness,  his  helplessness  had  made  it  feel  that 
he,  too,  was  lonely.    It  pressed  a  little  closer  to  him. 


Behind  Bianca's  Veil  309 


). 


The  moonlight,  gaining  pale  mastery  over  the  flicker- 
ing lamp,  filled  the  whole  room. 

Mr.  Stone  said:   *'  I  want  her  mother!" 

The  form  beside  him  ceased  to  struggle. 

Finding  out  an  old,  forgotten  way,  Mr.  Stone's 
arm  slid  round  that  quivering  body. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  her  "  he  muttered, 
and  slowly  he  began  to  rock  himself. 

"Motion,"  he  said,  **is  soothing." 

The  moon  passed  on.  The  form  beside  him  sat  so 
still  that  Mr.  Stone  ceased  moving.  His  daughter 
was  no  longer  sobbing.  Suddenly  her  lips  seared  his 
forehead. 

Trembling  from  that  desperate  caress,  he  raised 
his  fingers  to  the  spot  and  looked  round. 

She  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII  / 

HILARY  DEALS  WITH  THE  SITUATION 

TO  understand  the  conduct  of  Hilary  and  Bianca 
at  what  "Westminister"  would  have  called 
this  "crisax,"  not  only  their  feelings  as  sentient 
human  beings,  but  their  matrimonial  philosophy, 
must  be  taken  into  account.  By  education  and 
environment  they  belonged  to  a  section  of  society 
which  had  "in  those  days'*  abandoned  the  more 
old-fashioned  views  of  marriage.  Such  as  composed 
this  section,  finding  themselves  in  opposition,  not 
only  to  the  orthodox  proprietary  creed,  but  even 
to  their  own  legal  rights,  had  been  driven  to  an 
attitude  of  almost  blatant  freedom.  Like  all  folk 
in  opposition,  they  were  bound,  as  a  simple  matter 
of  principle,  to  disagree  with  those  in  power,  to  view 
with  a  contemptuous  resentment  that  majority  which 
said,  "  I  believe  the  thing  is  mine,  and  mine  it  shall 
remain" — a  majority  which  by  force  of  numbers 
made  this  creed  the  law.  Unable  legally  to  be  other 
than  the  proprietors  of  wife  or  husband,  as  the  case 
might  be,  they  were  obliged,  even  in  the  most  happy 
unions,  to  be  very  careful  not  to  become  disgusted 
with  their  own  position.  Their  legal  status  was,  as 
it  were,  a  goad,  spurring  them  on  to  show  their 
horror  of  it.  They  were  like  children  sent  to  school 
with  trousers  that  barely  reached  their  knees,  aware 
that  they  could  neither  reduce  their  stature  to  the 

310 


Hilary  Deals  with  the  Situation     311 

proportions  of  their  breeches  nor  make  their  breeches 
grow.  They  were  furnishing  an  instance  of  that 
immemorial  "change  of  form  to  form"  to  which  Mr. 
Stone  had  given  the  name  of  Life.  In  a  past  age 
thinkers  and  dreamers  and  "artistic  pigs,**  rejecting 
the  forms  they  found,  had  given  unconscious  shape 
to  this  marriage  law,  which,  after  they  had  become 
the  wind,  had  formed  itself  out  of  their  exiled  pictures 
and  thoughts  and  dreams.  And  now  this  particular 
law  in  turn  was  the  dried  rind,  devoid  of  pips  or 
speculation;  and  the  thinkers  and  dreamers  and 
"artistic  pigs'*  were  again  rejecting  it,  and  again 
themselves  in  exile. 

This  exiled  faith,  this  honour  amongst  thieves, 
animated  a  little  conversation  between  Hilary  and 
Bianca  on  the  Tuesday  following  the  night  when  Mr. 
Stone  sat  on  his  bed  to  watch  the  rising  moon. 

Quietly  Bianca  said:  "I  think  I  shall  be  going 
away  for  a  time." 

"Would  n*t  you  rather  that  I  went  instead?" 

"You  are  wanted;  I  am  not." 

That  ice-cold,  ice-clear  remark  contained  the  pitb 
of  the  whole  matter;  and  Hilary  said: 

"  You  are  not  going  at  once?" 

"  At  the  end  of  the  week,  I  think." 

Noting  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  she  added: 

"  Yes;  we  're  neither  of  us  looking  quite  our  best." 

"  I  am  sorry." 

"  I  know  you  are." 

This  had  been  all.  It  had  been  sufficient  to  bring 
Hilary  once  more  face  to  face  with  the  situation. 

Its  constituent  elements  remained  the  same; 
relative  values  had  much  changed.    The  temptations 


312  Fraternity 

of  St.  Anthony  were  becoming  more  poignant  every 
hour.  He  had  no  "principles*'  to  pit  against  them: 
he  had  merely  the  inveterate  distaste  for  hurting 
anybody,  and  a  feeling  that  if  he  yielded  to  his 
inclination  he  would  be  faced  ultimately  with  a 
worse  situation  than  ever.  It  was  not  possible  for 
him  to  look  at  the  position  as  Mr.  Purcey  might 
have  done,  if  his  wife  had  withdrawn  from  him  and 
a  girl  had  put  herself  in  his  way.  Neither  hesitation 
because  of  the  defenceless  position  of  the  girl,  nor 
hesitation  because  of  his  own  future  with  her,  would 
have  troubled  Mr.  Purcey.  He — good  man — ^in  his 
straightforward  way,  would  have  only  thought  about 
the  present — ^not,  indeed,  intending  to  have  a  future 
with  a  young  person  of  that  class.  Consideration 
for  a  wife  who  had  withdrawn  from  the  society  of 
Mr.  Purcey  would  also  naturally  have  been  absent 
from  the  equation.  That  Hilary  worried  over  all 
these  questions  was  the  mark  of  his  fin  de  sibclism. 
And  in  the  meantime  the  facts  demanded  a  decision. 

He  had  not  spoken  to  this  girl  since  the  day  of  the 
baby's  funeral,  but  in  that  long  look  from  the  garden 
he  had  in  effect  said:  "You  are  drawing  me  to  the 
only  sort  of  union  possible  to  us!'*  And  she  in  effect 
had  answered:   "  Do  what  you  like  with  me!*' 

There  were  other  facts,  too,  to  be  reckoned  with. 
Hughs  would  be  released  to-morrow;  the  little 
model  would  not  stop  her  visits  unless  forced  to; 
Mr.  Stone  could  not  well  do  without  her;  Bianca 
had  in  effect  declared  that  she  was  being  driven  out 
of  her  own  house.  It  was  this  situation  which  Hilary, 
seated  beneath  the  bust  of  Socrates,  turned  over 
and  over  in  his  mind.     Long  and  painful  reflection 


Hilary  Deals  with  the  Situation     313 

brought  him  back  continually  to  the  thought  that 
he  himself,  and  not  Bianca,  had  better  go  away. 
He  was  extremely  bitter  and  contemptuous  towards 
himself  that  he  had  not  done  so  long  ago.  He  made 
use  of  the  names  Martin  had  given  him.  *'  Hamlet," 
"Amateur,**  "Invertebrate.**  They  gave  him,  un- 
fortunately, little  comfort. 

In  the  afternoon  he  received  a  visit.  Mr.  Stone 
came  in  with  his  osier  fruit-bag  in  his  hand.  He 
remained  standing,  and  spoke  at  once. 

" Is  my  daughter  happy?*' 

At  this  unexpected  question  Hilary  walked  over 
to  the  fireplace. 

"  No,**  he  said  at  last;  "  I  am  afraid  she  is  not," 

"Why?** 

Hilary  was  silent;  then,  facing  the  old  man,  said: 

"  I  think  she  will  be  glad,  for  certain  reasons,  if  I 
go  away  for  a  time.** 

"When  are  you  going?**  asked  Mr.  Stone. 

"As  soon  as  I  can.** 

Mr.  Stone*s  eyes,  wistfully  bright,  seemed  trying 
to  see  through  heavy  fog. 

"She  came  to  me,  I  think,**  he  said;  "I  seem  to 
recollect  her  crying.     You  are  good  to  her?*' 

"  I  have  tried  to  be,**  said  Hilary. 

Mr.  Stone*s  face  was  discoloured  by  a  flush.  "You 
have  no  children,**  he  said  painfully;  "do  you  live 
together?** 

Hilary  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  estranged?**  said  Mr.  Stone. 

Hilary  bowed.  There  was  a  long  silence.  Mr. 
Stone's  eyes  had  travelled  to  the  window. 

"Without  love  there  cannot  be  life,**  he  said  at 


314  Fratcrnij 


last;  and  fixing  his  wistful  gaze  on  Hilary,  asked: 
"  Does  she  love  another? " 

Again  Hilary  shook  his  head. 

When  Mr.  Stone  next  spoke  it  was  clearly  to 
himself. 

"I  do  not  know  why  I  am  glad.  Do  you  love 
another?" 

At  this  question  Hilary's  eyebrows  settled  in  a 
frown.    "What  do  you  mean  by  love?**  he  said. 

Mr.  Stone  did  not  reply;  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  reflecting  deeply.  His  lips  began  to  move :  "  By 
love  I  mean  the  forgetfulness  of  self.  Unions  are 
frequent  in  which  only  the  sexual  instincts,  or  the 
remembrance  of  self,  are  roused ** 

"That  is  true,**  muttered  Hilary. 

Mr.  Stone  looked  up;  painful  traces  of  confusion 
showed  in  his  face.    "  We  were  discussing  something.** 

"  I  was  telling  you,"  said  Hilary,  "that  it  would  be 
better  for  your  daughter  if  I  go  away  for  a 
time." 

"Yes,**  said  Mr.  Stone;  "you  are  estranged." 

Hilary  went  back  to  his  stand  before  the  empty 
fireplace. 

"  There  is  one  thing,  sir,**  he  said,  "  on  my  conscience 
to  say  before  I  go,  and  I  must  leave  it  to  you  to 
decide.  The  little  girl  who  comes  to  you  no  longer 
lives  where  she  used  to  live.** 

"  In  that  street  ..."  said  Mr.  Stone. 

Hilary  went  on  quickly.  "  She  was  obliged  to  leave 
because  the  husband  of  the  woman  with  whom  she 
used  to  lodge  became  infatuated  with  her.  He  has 
been  in  prison,  and  comes  out  to-morrow.  If  she 
continues  to  come  here  he  will,  of  course,  be  able 


Hilary  Deals  with  the  Situation     315 

to  find  her.  I  'm  afraid  he  will  pursue  her  again. 
Have  I  made  it  clear  to  you?" 

"No/'  said  Mr.  Stone. 

"The  man/*  resumed  Hilary  patiently,  "is  a  poor, 
violent  creature,  who  has  been  wounded  in  the  head ; 
he  is  not  quite  responsible.  He  may  do  the  girl  an 
injury.'* 

"What  injury?" 

"He  has  stabbed  his  wife  already." 

"  I  will  speak  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

Hilary  smiled.  "I  am  afraid  that  words  will 
hardly  meet  the  case.     She  ought  to  disappear." 

There  was  silence. 

"My  book!"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

It  smote  Hilary  to  see  how  white  his  face  had 
become.  "It's  better,"  he  thought,  "to  bring  his 
will-power  into  play;  she  will  never  come  here, 
anyway,  after  I  'm  gone." 

But,  unable  to  bear  the  tragedy  in  the  old  man's 
eyes,  he  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"  Perhaps  she  will  take  the  risk,  sir,  if  you  ask  her." 

Mr.  Stone  did  not  answer,  and,  not  knowing  what 
more  to  say,  Hilary  went  back  to  the  window. 
Miranda  was  slumbering  lightly  out  there  in  the 
speckled  shade,  where  it  was  not  too  warm  and  not 
too  cold,  her  cheek  resting  on  her  paw  and  white 
teeth  showing. 

Mr.  Stone's  voice  rose  again.  "You  are  right;  I 
cannot  ask  her  to  run  a  risk  like  that!" 

"She  is  just  coming  up  the  garden,"  Hilary  said 
huskily.     "  Shall  I  tell  her  to  come  in?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

Hilary  beckoned. 


3i6  Fraternity 

The  girl  came  in  carrying  a  tiny  bunch  of  lilies- 
of-the-valley;  her  face  fell  at  sight  of  Mr.  Stone: 
she  stood  still,  raising  the  lilies  to  her  breast.  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  striking  than  the  change  from 
her  look  of  fluttered  expectancy  to  a  sort  of  hard 
dismay.  A  spot  of  red  came  into  both  her  cheeks. 
She  gazed  from  Mr.  Stone  to  Hilary  and  back  again. 
Both  were  staring  at  her.  No  one  spoke.  The 
little  model's  bosom  began  heaving  as  though  she 
had  been  running ;  she  said  faintly :  "  Look ;  I 
brought  you  this,  Mr.  Stone!'*  and  held  out  to  him 
the  bunch  of  lilies.  But  Mr.  Stone  made  no  sign. 
*'  Don't  you  like  them?'* 

Mr.  Stone's  eyes  remained  fastened  on  her  face. 

To  Hilary  this  suspense  was,  evidently,  most 
distressing.  **Come,  will  you  tell  her,  sir,"  he  said, 
"or  shall  I?" 

Mr.  Stone  spoke. 

"  I  shall  try  and  write  my  book  without  you.  You 
must  not  run  this  risk.     I  cannot  allow  it." 

The  little  model  turned  her  eyes  from  side  to  side, 
*'  But  I  like  to  copy  out  your  book,"  she  said. 

"The  man  will  injure  you,"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

The  little  model  looked  at  Hilary. 

"I  don't  care  if  he  does;  I  'm  not  afraid  of  him. 
I  can  look  after  myself;  I  'm  used  to  it." 

**/  am  going  away,"  said  Hilary  quietly. 

After  a  desperate  look,  that  seemed  to  ask,  **Am 
I  going,  too?'!  the  little  model  stood  as  though 
frozen. 

Wishing  to  end  the  painful  scene,  Hilary  went  up 
to  Mr.  Stone. 

**Do  you  want  to  dictate  to  her  this  afternoon,  sir?'! 


Hilary  Deals  with  the  Situation     317 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

"Nor  to-morrow?*' 

"No/' 

"Will  you  come  a  little  walk  with  me?" 

Mr.  Stone  bowed. 

Hilary  turned  to  the  little  model.  "It  is  good-bye, 
then,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  take  his  hand.  Her  eyes,  turned 
sideways,  glinted;  her  teeth  were  fastened  on  her 
lower  lip.  She  dropped  the  lilies,  suddenly  looked 
up  at  him,  gulped,  and  slunk  away.  In  passing  she 
had  smeared  the  lilies  with  her  foot. 

Hilary  picked  up  the  fragments  of  the  flowers, 
and  dropped  them  into  the  grate.  The  fragrance  of 
the  bruised  blossoms  remained  clinging  to  the  air. 

"Shall  we  get  ready  for  our  walk?"  he  said. 

Mr.  Stone  moved  feebly  to  the  door,  and  very  soon 
they  were  walking  silently  towards  the  Gardens. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

thyme's  adventurb 

THIS  same  afternoon  Thyme,  wheeling  a  bicycle 
and  carrying  a  light  valise,  was  slipping  into 
a  back  street  out  of  the  Old  Square.  Putting 
her  burden  down  at  the  pavement's  edge,  she  blew 
a  whistle.  A  hansom  -  cab  appeared,  and  a  man 
in  ragged  clothes,  who  seemed  to  spring  out  of  the 
pavement,  took  hold  of  her  valise.  His  lean,  un- 
shaven face  was  full  of  wolfish  misery. 

"Get  off  with  you!"  the  cabman  said. 

"Let  him  do  it!"  murmured  Thyme. 

The  cab-runner  hoisted  up  the  trunk,  then  waited 
motionless  beside  the  cab. 

Thyme  handed  him  two  coppers.  He  looked  at 
them  in  silence,  and  went  away. 

"Poor  man,"  she  thought;  "that's  one  of  the 
things  we  've  got  to  do  away  with!" 

The  cab  now  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  the 
Park,  Th)mie  following  on  her  bicycle,  and  trying 
to  stare  about  her  calmly. 

"This,"  she  thought,  "is  the  end  of  the  old  life. 
I  won't  be  romantic,  and  imagine  I  'm  doing  anything 
special;  I  must  take  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course." 
She  thought  of  Mr.  Purcey's  face — "that  person!" — 
if  he  could  have  seen  her  at  this  moment  turning 
her  back  on  comfort.  "The  moment  I  get  there," 
she  mused,  "I  shall  let  mother  know;   she  can  come 

318 


Thyme's  Adventure  319 

out  to-morrow,  and  see  for  herself.  I  can't  have 
hysterics  about  my  disappearance,  and  all  that. 
They  must  get  used  to  the  idea  that  I  mean  to  be 
in  touch  with  things.  I  can't  be  stopped  by  what 
anybody  thinks!". 

An  approaching  motor-car  brought  a  startled  frown 
across  her  brow.  Was  it  "that  person?'*  But 
though  it  was  not  Mr.  Purcey  and  his  A.  i.  Damyer, 
it  was  somebody  so  like  him  that  it  made  no  differ- 
ence.    Thyme  uttered  a  little  laugh. 

In  the  Park  a  cool  light  danced  and  glittered  on 
the  trees  and  water,  and  the  same  cool,  dancing 
glitter  seemed  lighting  the  girl's  eyes. 

The  cabman  unseen  took  an  admiring  look  at  her. 
•'Nice  little  bit,  this!"  it  said. 

**  Grandfather  bathes  here,"  thought  Thyme. 
**Poor  darling!    I  pity  every  one  that  's  old." 

The  cab  passed  on  under  the  shade  of  trees  out 
into  the  road. 

**I  wonder  if  we  have  only  one  self  in  us,"  thought 
Thyme.  "I  sometimes  feel  that  I  have  two — Uncle 
Hilary  would  understand  what  I  mean.  The  pave- 
ments are  beginning  to  smell  horrid  already,  and 
it  's  only  June  to-morrow.  Will  mother  feel  my 
going  very  much?    How  glorious  if  one  did  n't  feel!" 

The  cab  turned  into  a  narrow  street  of  little  shops. 

"It  must  be  dreadful  to  have  to  serve  in  a  small 
shop.  What  millions  of  people  there  are  in  the 
world!  Can  anything  be  of  any  use?  Martin  says 
what  matters  is  to  do  one's  job;  but  what  is  one's 
job?" 

The  cab  emerged  into  a  broad,  quiet  square. 

"  But  I  'm  not  going  to  think  of  anything,"  thought 


320  Fraternity 

Thyme;  "that  's  fatal.  Suppose  father  stops  my 
allowance;  I  should  have  to  earn  my  living  as  a 
typist,  or  something  of  that  sort;  but  he  won't, 
when  he  sees  I  mean  it.  Besides,  mother  would  n't 
let  him." 

The  cab  entered  the  Euston  Road,  and  again  the 
cabman's  broad  face  was  turned  towards  Thyme 
with  an  inquiring  stare. 

**What  a  hateful  road!"  Thyme  thought.  **What 
dull,  ugly,  common-looking  faces  all  the  people  seem 
to  have  in  London !  as  if  they  did  n't  care  for  anything 
but  just  to  get  through  their  day  somehow.  I  've 
only  seen  two  really  pretty  faces ! " 

The  cab  stopped  before  a  small  tobacconist's  on 
the  south  side  of  the  road. 

"Have  I  got  to  live  here?"  thought  Th)rme. 

Through  the  open  door  a  narrow  passage  led  to  a 
narrow  staircase  covered  with  oilcloth.  She  raised 
her  bicycle  and  wheeled  it  in.  A  Jewish-looking 
youth  emerging  from  the  shop  accosted  her. 

"Your  gentleman  friend  says  you  are  to  stay  In 
your  rooms,  please,  until  he  comes." 

His  warm  red-brown  eyes  dwelt  on  her  lovingly. 
"Shall  I  take  your  luggage  up,  miss?" 

"Thank  you;  I  can  manage." 

"It  's  the  first  floor,"  said  the  young  man. 

The  little  rooms  which  Thyme  entered  were  stuffy, 
clean,  and  neat.  Putting  her  trunk  down  in  her 
bedroom,  which  looked  out  on  a  bare  yard  she 
went  into  the  sitting-room  and  threw  the  window 
up.  Down  below  the  cabman  and  tobacconist  were 
engaged  in  conversation.  Thyme  caught  the 
expression  on  their  faces— a  sort  of  leering  curiosity. 


Thyme's  Adventure  321 

"How  disgusting  and  horrible  men  are!*'  she 
thought,  moodily  staring  at  the  traffic.  All  seemed 
so  grim,  so  inextricable,  and  vast,  out  there  in  the 
grey  heat  and  hurry,  as  though  some  monstrous 
devil  were  sporting  with  a  monstrous  ant-heap.  The 
reek  of  petrol,  and  of  dung  rose  to  her  nostrils.  It 
was  so  terribly  big  and  hopeless;  it  was  so  ugly 
"I  shall  never  do  anything,"  thought  Thyme — 
'  *  never — never !     Why  does  n  't  Martin  come  ? ' ' 

She  went  into  her  bedroom  and  opened  her  valise. 
With  the  scent  of  lavender  that  came  from  it,  there 
sprang  up  a  vision  of  her  white  bedroom  at  home, 
and  the  trees  of  the  green  garden  and  the  blackbirds 
on  the  grass. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs  brought  her 
back  into  the  sitting-room.  Martin  was  standing  in 
the  doorway. 

Thyme  ran  towards  him,  but  stopped  abruptly. 
**I  Ve  come,  you  see.  What  made  you  choose  this 
place?" 

*'  I  'm  next  door  but  two ;  and  there  *s  a  girl  here — 
one  of  us.     She  11  show  you  the  ropes." 

"Is  she  a  lady?" 

Martin  raised  his  shoulders.  "She  is  what  is 
called  a  lady,"  he  said;  "but  she  's  the  right  sort, 
all  the  same.     Nothing  will  stop  her." 

At  this  proclamation  of  supreme  virtue,  the  look 
on  Thyme's  face  was  very  queer.  "You  don't 
trust  me,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "and  you  trust  that 
girl.  You  put  me  here  for  her  to  watch  over 
me!.  .  ." 

"I  want  to  send  this  telegram,"  she  said  aloud. 

Martin   read   the   telegram.      "You   oughtn't   to 


222  Fraternity 

have  funked  telling  your  mother  what  you  meant 
to  do/' 

Thyme  crimsoned.  "I  'm  not  cold-blooded,  like 
you." 

"This  Is  a  big  matter/'  said  Martin.  "I  told  you 
that  you  had  no  business  to  come  at  all  if  you  could  n't 
look  it  squarely  in  the  face." 

"If  you  want  me  to  stay  you  had  better  be  more 
decent  to  me,  Martin." 

"It  must  be  your  own  affair,"  said  Martin. 

Thyme  stood  at  the  window,  biting  her  lips  to 
keep  the  tears  back  from  her  eyes.  A  very  pleasant 
voice  behind  her  said:  "I  do  think  it 's  so  splendid 
of  you  to  come ! '.' 

A  girl  in  grey  was  standing  there — thin,  delicate, 
rather  plain,  with  a  nose  ever  so  little  to  one  side, 
lips  faintly  smiling,  and  large,  shining,  greenish 
eyes. 

"I  am  Mary  Daimt.  I  live  above  you.  Have  you 
had  some  tea?" 

In  the  gentle  question  of  this  girl  with  the  faintly 
smiling  lips  and  shining  eyes  Thyme  fancied  that  she 
detected  mockery. 

"Yes,  thanks.  I  want  to  be  shown  what  my 
work  's  to  be,  at  once,  please." 

The  grey  girl  looked  at  Martin. 

"Oh!  Won't  to-morrow  do  for  all  that  sort  of 
thing?  I  'm  sure  you  must  be  tired.  Mr.  Stone,  do 
make  her  rest!" 

Martin's  glance  seemed  to  say:  "Please  leave 
your  femininities ! ' ' 

"If  you  mean  business,  your  work  will  be  the 
same  as  hers,"  he  said;   "you  're  not  qualified.    All 


Thyme's  Adventure  323 

you  can  do  will  be  visiting,  noting  the  state  of  the 
houses,  and  the  condition  of  the  children/* 

The  girl  in  grey  said  gently:  "You  see,  we  only 
deal  with  sanitation  and  the  children.  It  seems 
hard  on  the  grown  people  and  the  old  to  leave  them 
out;  but  there  *s  sure  to  be  so  much  less  money 
than  we  want,  so  that  it  must  all  go  towards  the 
future.'* 

There  was  a  silence.  The  girl  with  the  shining 
eyes  added  softly:   **i9So!*' 

"1950!"  repeated  Martin.  It  seemed  to  be  some 
formula  of  faith. 

''I  must  send  this  telegram!''  muttered  Thyme. 

Martin  took  it  from  her  and  went  out. 

Left  alone  in  the  little  room,  the  two  girls  did  not 
at  first  speak.  The  girl  in  grey  was  watching  Thyme 
half  timidly,  as  if  she  could  not  tell  what  to  make 
of  this  young  creature  who  looked  so  charming,  and 
kept  shooting  such  distrustful  glances. 

**1  think  it 's  so  awfully  sweet  of  you  to  come," 
she  said  at  last.  **I  know  what  a  good  time  you 
have  at  home;  your  cousin  's  often  told  me.  Don't 
you  think  he  's  splendid?" 

To  that  question  Thyme  made  no  answer. 

"Isn't  this  work  horrid,"  she  said — "prying  into 
people's  houses?" 

The  grey  girl  smiled.  "It  is  rather  awful  some- 
times. I  've  been  at  it  six  months  now.  You  get 
used  to  it.  I  've  had  all  the  worst  things  said  to 
me  by  now,  I  should  think." 

Thyme  shuddered. 

"You  see,"  said  the  grey  girl's  faintly  smiling  lips, 
"you  soon  get  the  feeling  of  having  to  go  through 


324  Fraternity 

with  it.  We  all  realise  it  's  got  to  be  done,  of  course. 
Your  cousin  's  one  of  the  best  of  us:  nothing  seems 
to  put  him  out.  He  has  such  a  nice  sort  of  scornful 
kindness.     I  'd  rather  work  with  him  than  any  one.'* 

She  looked  past  her  new  associate  into  that  world 
outside,  where  the  sky  seemed  all  wires  and  yellow 
heat-dust.  She  did  not  notice  Thyme  appraising  her 
from  head  to  foot,  with  a  stare  hostile  and  jealous, 
but  pathetic,  too,  as  though  confessing  that  this 
girl  was  her  superior. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  can't  do  that  work ! "  she  said  suddenly. 

The  grey  girl  smiled.  **0h,  I  thought  that  at 
first."  Then,  with  an  admiring  look:  **But  I  do 
think  it 's  rather  k  i^hame  fcfr'you,  you  're  so  pretty. 
Perhaps  they  'd  put  you  on  to  tabulation  work, 
though  that  's  awfully  dull.    We  '11  ask  your  cousin." 

**No;  I  '11  do  the  whole  or  nothing." 

"Well,"  said  the  grey  girl,  **I  *ve  got  one  house 
left  to-day.  Would  you  like  to  come  and  see  the 
sort  of  thing?" 

She  took  a  small  notebook  from  a  side-pocket 
in  her  skirt. 

"  I  can't  get  on  without  a  pocket.  You  must  have 
something  that  you  can't  leave  behind.  I  left  four 
little  bags  and  two  dozen  handkerchiefs  in  five  weeks 
before  I  came  back  to  pockets.  It  's  rather  a  horrid 
house,  I  'm  afraid." 

"/  shall  be  all  right,"  said  Thyme  shortly. 

In  the  shop  doorway  the  young  tobacconist  was 
taking  the  evening  air.  He  greeted  them  with  his 
polite  but  constitutionally  leering  smile. 

"Good-evening,  mith,"  he  said;   "nithe  evening." 

"He  's  rather  an  awful  little  man,"  the  grey  girl 


Thyme's   Adventure  325 

said  when  they  had  achieved  the  crossing  of  the 
street;  "but  he's  got  quite  a  nice  sense  of 
humour." 

"Ah!"  said  Thyme. 

They  had  turned  into  a  by-street,  and  stopped 
before  a  house  which  had  obviously  seen  better  days. 
Its  windows  were  cracked,  its  doors  unpainted,  and 
down  in  the  basement  could  be  seen  a  pile  of  rags, 
an  evil-looking  man  seated  by  it,  and  a  blazing  fire. 
Thyme  felt  a  little  gulping  sensation.  There  was  a 
putrid  scent  as  of  burning  refuse.  She  looked  at  her 
companion.  The  grey  girl  was  consulting  her  note- 
book with  a  faint  smile  on  her  lips.  And  in  Thyme's 
heart  rose  a  feeling  that  was  almost  hatred  for  this 
girl,  who  was  so  businesslike  in  the  presence  of  such 
sights  and  scents. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  red-faced  woman, 
who  looked  as  if  she  had  been  asleep. 

The  grey  girl  screwed  up  her  shining  eyes.  "Oh, 
do  you  mind  if  we  come  in  a  minute?"  she  said. 
"  It  would  be  so  good  of  you.  We  're  making  a 
report." 

"  There 's  nothing  to  report  here,"  the  young 
woman  answered.  But  the  grey  girl  had  slipped  as 
gently  past  as  though  she  had  been  the  very  spirit 
of  adventure. 

"  Of  course,  I  see  that,  but  just  as  a  matter  of  form, 
you  know." 

"I  Ve  parted  with  most  of  my  things,"  the  young 
woman  said  defensively,  "since  my  husband  died-. 
It  's  a  hard  life." 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  not  worse  than  mine — always 
poking  my  nose  into  other  people's  houses." 


326  Fraternity 

The  young  woman  was  silent,  evidently  surprised. 

"  The  landlord  ought  to  keep  you  in  better  repair," 
said  the  grey  girl.  "  He  owns  next  door,  too,  does  n't 
he?" 

The  young  woman  nodded.  "  He  's  a  bad  land- 
lord. All  down  the  street  'ere  it 's  the  same.  Can't 
get  nothing  done." 

The  grey  girl  had  gone  over  to  a  dirty  bassinette 
where  a  half-naked  child  sprawled.  An  ugly  little 
girl  with  fat  red  cheeks  was  sitting  on  a  stool  beside 
it,  close  to  an  open  locker  wherein  could  be  seen  a 
number  of  old  meat  bones. 

"  Your  chickabiddies  ? "  said  the  grey  girl.  "  Are  n't 
they  sweet?" 

The  young  woman's  face  became  illumined  by  a 
smile. 

"  They  're  healthy,"  she  said. 

"  That 's  more  than  can  be  said  for  all  the  children 
in  the  house,  I  expect,"  murmured  the  grey  girl. 

The  young  woman  replied  emphatically,  as  though 
voicing  an  old  grievance:  "The  three  on  the  first 
floor  's  not  so  bad,  but  I  don't  let  'em  'ave  anything 
to  do  with  that  lot  at  the  top." 

Thyme  saw  her  new  friend's  hand  hover  over  the 
child's  head  like  some  pale  dove.  In  answer  to 
that  gesture  the  mother  nodded.  "  Just  that ;  you  've 
got  to  clean  'em  every  time  they  go  near  them  children 
at  the  top." 

The  grey  girl  looked  at  Thyme.     "  That 's  where 
we  've  got  to  go  evidently,"  she  seemed  to  say. 
A  dirty  lot!"  muttered  the  young  woman. 
It 's  very  hard  on  you." 
It  is.    I  'm  workin'  at  the  laundry  all  day  when 


Thyme's  Adventure  327 

I  can  get  It.  I  can't  look  after  the  children — they 
get  everywhere." 

"  Very  hard/*  murmured  the  grey  girl.  "  I  *11  make 
a  note  of  that.'* 

Together  with  the  little  book,  in  which  she  was 
writing  furiously,  she  had  pulled  out  her  handker- 
chief, and  the  sight  of  this  handkerchief  reposing 
on  the  floor  gave  Thyme  a  queer  satisfaction,  such 
as  comes  when  one  remarks  in  superior  people  the 
absence  of  a  virtue  existing  in  oneself. 

"Well,  we  must  n't  keep  you,  Mrs. — Mrs ?" 

"Cleary." 

"Cleary.  How  old  's  this  little  one?  Four?  And 
the  other?    Two?    They  are  ducks.    Good-bye!" 

In  the  corridor  outside  the  grey  girl  whispered: 
"I  do  like  the  way  we  all  pride  ourselves  on  being 
better  than  some  one  else.  I  think  it 's  so  hopeful 
and  jolly.  Shall  we  go  up  and  see  the  abyss  at  the 
top?" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


A  YOUNG  girl's  MIND 


A  YOUNG  girl's  mind  is  like  a  wood  in  Spring 
—now  a  rising  mist  of  bluebells  and  flakes 
of  dappled  sunlight;  now  a  worid  of  still,  wan 
tender  saplings,  weeping  they  know  not  why. 
Through  the  curiing  twigs  of  boughs  just  green,  its 
wings  fly  towards  the  stars;  but  the  next  moment 
they  have  drooped  to  mope  beneath  the  damp 
bushes.  It  is  ever  yearning  for  and  trembling  at  the 
future;  in  its  secret  places  all  the  countless  shapes 
of  things  that  are  to  be  are  taking  stealthy  counsel 
of  how  to  grow  up  without  letting  their  gown  of 
mystery  fall.  They  rustle,  whisper,  shriek  suddenly, 
and  as  suddenly  fall  into  a  delicious  silence.  From 
the  first  hazel-bush  to  the  last  may-tree  it  is  an 
unending  meeting-place  of  young  solemn  things 
eager  to  find  out  what  they  are,  eager  to  rush  forth 
to  greet  the  kisses  of  the  wind  and  sun,  and  for 
ever  trembling  back  and  hiding  their  faces.  The 
spirit  of  that  wood  seems  to  lie  with  her  ear  close 
to  the  ground,  a  pale  petal  of  a  hand  curved  like  a 
shell  behind  it,  listening  for  the  whisper  of  her  own 
life.  There  she  lies,  white  and  supple,  with  dewy 
wistful  eyes,  sighing:  '*What  is  my  meaning?  Ah, 
I  am  everything!  Is  there  in  all  the  world  a  thing 
so  wonderful  as  I?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  am  nothing — my 
vings  are  heavy;  I  faint,  I  die!" 

328 


A  Young  Girl's  Mind  329 

When  Thyme,  attended  by  the  grey  girl,  emerged 
from  the  abyss  at  the  top,  her  cheeks  were  flushed 
and  her  hands  clenched.  She  said  nothing.  The 
grey  girl,  too,  was  silent,  with  a  look  such  as  a  spirit 
divested  of  its  body  by  long  bathing  in  the  river  of 
reality  might  bend  on  one  who  has  just  come  to  dip 
her  head.  Thyme's  quick  eyes  saw  that  look,  and 
her  colour  deepened.  She  saw,  too,  the  glance  of 
the  Jewish  youth  when  Martin  joined  them  in  the 
doorway. 

"Two  girls  now,**  he  seemed  to  say.  "He  goes 
it,  this  young  man!" 

Supper  was  laid  in  her  new  friend's  room — pressed 
beef,  potato  salad,  stewed  prunes,  and  ginger  ale. 
Martin  and  the  grey  girl  talked.  Thyme  ate  in 
silence,  but  though  her  eyes  seemed  fastened  on  her 
plate,  she  saw  every  glance  that  passed  between 
them,  heard  every  word  they  said.  Those  glances 
were  not  remarkable,  nor  were  those  words  par- 
ticularly important,  but  they  were  spoken  in  tones 
that  seemed  important  to  Thyme.  "He  never  talks 
to  me  like  that,**  she  thought. 

When  supper  was  over  they  went  out  into  the 
streets  to  walk,  but  at  the  door  the  grey  girl  gave 
Thyme's  arm  a  squeeze,  her  cheek  a  swift  kiss,  and 
turned  back  up  the  stairs. 

"  Are  n't  you  coming?"  shouted  Martin. 

Her  voice  was  heard  answering  from  above :  "  No, 
not  to-night." 

With  the  back  of  her  hand  Thyme  rubbed  off  the 
kiss.  The  two  cousins  walked  out  amongst  the 
traffic. 

The  evening  was  very  warm  and  close;  no  breeze 


330  Fraternity 

fanned  the  reeking  town.  Speaking  little,  they 
wandered  among  endless  darkening  streets,  whence 
to  return  to  the  light  and  traffic  of  the  Euston  Road 
seemed  like  coming  back  to  Heaven.  At  last,  close 
again  to  her  new  home,  Thyme  said:  "Why  should 
one  bother?  It  's  all  a  horrible  great  machine,  trying 
to  blot  us  out;  people  are  like  insects  when  you  put 
your  thumb  on  them  and  smear  them  on  a  book. 
I  hate— I  loathe  it!*' 

"  They  might  as  well  be  healthy  insects  while  they 
last,*'  answered  Martin. 

Thyme  faced  round  at  him.  "I  shan't  sleep  to- 
night, Martin;  get  out  my  bicycle  for  me." 

Martin  scrutinised  her  by  the  light  of  the  street 
lamp.     "  All  right,"  he  said;  "  I  *11  come  too." 

There  are,  say  moralists,  roads  that  lead  to  Hell, 
but  it  was  on  a  road  that  leads  to  Hampstead  that 
the  two  young  cyclists  set  forth  towards  eleven 
o'clock.  The  difiEerence  between  the  character  of 
the  two  destinations  was  soon  apparent,  for  whereas 
man  taken  in  bulk  had  perhaps  made  Hell,  Hampstead 
had  obviously  been  made  by  the  upper  classes. 
There  were  trees  and  gardens,  and  instead  of  dark 
canals  of  sky  banked  by  the  roofs  of  houses  and 
hazed  with  the  yellow  scum  of  London  lights,  the 
heavens  spread  out  in  a  wide  trembling  pool.  From 
that  rampart  of  the  town,  the  Spaniard's  Road,  two 
plains  lay  exposed  to  left  and  right;  the  scent  of 
may-tree  blossom  had  stolen  up  the  hill;  the  rising 
moon  clung  to  a  fir-tree  bough.  Over  the  country 
the  far  stars  presided,  and  sleep's  dark  wings  were 
spread  above  the  fields — silent,  scarce  breathing,  lay 
the  body  of  the  land.     But  to  the  south,  where  the 


A  Young  Girl's  Mind  331 

town,  that  restless  head,  was  lying,  the  stars  seemed 
to  have  fallen  and  were  sown  in  the  thousand  furrows 
of  its  great  grey  marsh,  and  from  the  dark  miasma 
of  those  streets  there  travelled  up  a  rustle,  a  whisper, 
the  far  allurement  of  some  deathless  dancer,  dragging 
men  to  watch  the  swirl  of  her  black,  spangled  drapery, 
the  gleam  of  her  writhing  limbs.  Like  the  song  of 
the  sea  in  a  shell  was  the  murmur  of  that  witch  of 
motion,  clasping  to  her  the  souls  of  men,  drawing 
them  down  into  a  soul  whom  none  had  evfer  seen 
at  rest. 

Above  the  two  young  cousins,  scudding  along 
that  ridge  between  the  country  and  the  town,  three 
thin  white  clouds  trailed  slowly  towards  the  west — 
like  tired  sea-birds  drifting  exhausted  far  out  from 
land  on  a  sea  blue  to  blackness  with  unfathomable 
depth. 

For  an  hour  those  two  rode  silently  into  the  coimtry. 

"  Have  we  come  far  enough?*'  Martin  said  at  last. 

Thyme  shook  her  head.  A  long,  steep  hill  beyond 
a  little  sleeping  village  had  brought  them  to  a  stand- 
still. Across  the  shadowy  fields  a  pale  sheet  of  water 
gleamed  out  in  moonlight.  Thyme  turned  down 
towards  it. 

"I  'm  hot,"  she  said;  "I  want  to  bathe  my  face. 
Stay  here.     Don't  come  with  me." 

She  left  her  bicycle,  and,  passing  through  a  gate, 
vanished  among  the  trees. 

Martin  stayed  leaning  against  the  gate.  The  village 
clock  struck  one.  The  distant  call  of  a  hunting  owl, 
"Qu-wheek,  qu-wheek!"  sounded  through  the  grave 
stillness  of  this  last  night  of  May.  The  moon  at  her 
curve's  summit  floated  at  peace  on  the  blue  surface 


332  Fraternity 

of  the  sky,  a  great  closed  water-lily.  And  Martin 
saw  through  the  trees  scimitar-shaped  reeds  clustering 
black  along  the  pool's  shore.  All  about  him  the 
may-flowers  were  alight.  It  was  such  a  night  as 
makes  dreams  real  and  turns  reality  to  dreams. 

"All  moonlit  nonsense!**  thought  the  young  man, 
for  the  night  had  disturbed  his  heart. 

But  Thyme  did  not  come  back.  He  called  to  her, 
and  in  the  death-like  silence  following  his  shouts  he 
could  hear  his  own  heart  beat.  He  passed  in  through 
the  gate.  She  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Why  was 
she  playing  him  this  trick? 

He  turned  up  from  the  water  among  the  trees, 
where  the  incense  of  the  may-flowers  hung  heavy 
in  the  air. 

"  Never  look  for  a  thing!**  he  thought,  and  stopped 
to  listen.  It  was  so  breathless  that  the  leaves  of  a 
low  bough  against  his  cheek  did  not  stir  while  he 
stood  there.  Presently  he  heard  faint  sounds,  and 
stole  towards  them.  Under  a  beech-tree  he  almost 
stumbled  over  Thyme,  lying  with  her  face  pressed 
to  the  ground.  The  young  doctor*s  heart  gave  a 
sickening  leap;  he  quickly  knelt  down  beside  her. 
The  girl's  body,  pressed  close  to  the  dry  beech-mat, 
was  being  shaken  by  long  sobs.  From  head  to  foot 
it  quivered;  her  hat  had  been  torn  off,  and  the 
fragrance  of  her  hair  mingled  with  the  fragrance  of 
the  night.  In  Martin's  heart  something  seemed  to 
turn  over  and  over,  as  when  a  boy  he  had  watched 
a  rabbit  caught  in  a  snare.  He  touched  her.  She 
sat  up,  and,  dashing  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  cried: 
"  Go  away !    Oh,  go  away !  *' 

He  put  his  arm  round   her  and  waited.     Five 


A  Young  Girrs  Mind  333 

minutes  passed.  The  air  was  trembling  with  a  sort 
of  pale  vibration,  for  the  moonlight  had  found  a 
hole  in  the  dark  foliage  and  flooded  on  to  the  ground 
beside  them,  whitening  the  black  beech-husks.  Some 
tiny  bird,  disturbed  by  these  unwonted  visitors, 
began  chirruping  and  fluttering,  but  was  soon  still 
again.  To  Martin,  so  strangely  close  to  this  young 
creature  in  the  night,  there  came  a  sense  of  utter 
disturbance. 

"Poor  little  thing!'*  he  thought;  "be  careful  of 
her,  comfort  her!"  Hardness  seemed  so  broken  out 
of  her,  and  the  night  so  wonderful!  And  there  came 
into  the  young  man's  heart  a  throb  of  the  knowledge — 
very  rare  with  him,  for  he  was  not,  like  Hilary,  a 
philosophising  person — that  she  was  as  real  as 
himself — suffering,  hoping,  feeling,  not  his  hopes 
and  feelings,  but  her  own.  His  fingers  kept  pressing 
her  shoulder  through  her  thin  blouse.  And  the 
touch  of  those  fingers  was  worth  more  than  any 
words,  as  this  night,  all  moonlit  dreams,  was  worth 
more  than  a  thousand  nights  of  sane  reality. 

Thyme  twisted  herself  away  from  him  at  last. 

"  I  can't,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  'm  not  what  you  thought 
me — I  'm  not  made  for  it!" 

A  scornful  little  smile  curled  Martin's  lips.  So 
that  was  it!  But  the  smile  soon  died  away.  One 
did  not  hit  what  was  already  down. 

Thyme's  voice  wailed  through  the  silence.  "I 
thought  I  could — but  I  want  beautiful  things.  I 
can't  bear  it  all  so  grey  and  horrible.  I  'm  not  like 
that  girl.     I  'm — an — amateur!" 

"If  I  kissed  her — "  Martin  thought. 

She  sank  down  again,  burying  her  face  in  the  dark 


334  rraternity 

beech-mat.  The  moonlight  had  passed  on.  Her 
voice  came  faint  and  stifled,  as  out  of  the  tomb  of 
faith.  **I  'm  no  good.  I  never  shall  be.  I  'm  as  bad 
as  mother!" 

But  to  Martin  there  was  only  the  scent  of  her  hair. 

**No,"  murmured  Th)ane's  voice,  **I  'm  only  fit 
for  miserable  Art.   .    .    .    I  'm  only  fit  for— nothing ! '  * 

They  were  so  close  together  on  the  dark  beech-mat 
that  their  bodies  touched,  and  a  longing  to  clasp  her 
in  his  arms  came  over  him. 

**I  'm  a  selfish  beast!"  mourned  the  smothered 
voice.  "I  don't  really  care  for  all  these  people — I 
only  care  because  they  're  ugly  for  me  to  see ! ' ' 

Martin  reached  his  hand  out  to  her  hair.  If  she 
had  shrunk  away  he  would  have  seized  her,  but  as 
though  by  instinct  she  let  it  rest  there.  And  at  her 
sudden  stillness,  strange  and  touching,  Martin's 
quick  passion  left  him.  He  slipped  his  arm  round 
her  and  raised  her  up,  as  if  she  had  been  a  child,  and 
for  a  long  time  sat  listening  with  a  queer  twisted 
smile  to  the  moanings  of  her  lost  illusions. 

The  dawn  found  them  still  sitting  there  against 
the  bole  of  the  beech- tree.  Her  lips  were  parted;  the 
tears  had  dried  on  her  sleeping  face,  pillowed  against 
his  shoulder,  while  he  still  watched  her  sideways  with 
the  ghost  of  that  twisted  smile. 

And  beyond  the  grey  water,  like  some  tired  wanton, 
the  moon  in  an  orange  hood  was  stealing  down  to 
her  rest  between  the  trees. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

STEPHEN  SIGNS  CHEQUES 

WHEN  Cecilia  received  the  mystic  document 
containing  these  words:  *'Am  quite  all 
right.  Address,  598,  Euston  Road,  three  doors 
off  Martin.  Letter  follows  explaining. — Thyme," 
she  had  not  even  realised  her  little  daughter*s 
departure.  She  went  up  to  Thyme's  room  at 
once,  and  opening  all  the  drawers  and  cupboards 
stared  into  them  one  by  one.  The  many  things  she 
saw  there  allayed  the  first  pangs  of  her  disquiet. 

"She  has  only  taken  one  little  trunk,"  she  thought, 
**and  left  all  her  evening  frocks." 

This  act  of  independence  alarmed  rather  than 
surprised  her,  such  had  been  her  sense  of  the  unrest 
in  the  domestic  atmosphere  during  the  last  month. 
Since  the  evening  when  she  had  found  Thyme  in 
floods  of  tears  because  of  the  Hughs'  baby,  her 
maternal  eyes  had  not  failed  to  notice  something 
new  in  the  child's  demeanour — a  moodiness,  an  air 
almost  of  conspiracy,  together  with  an  emphatic 
increase  of  youthful  sarcasm.  Fearful  of  probing 
deep,  she  had  sought  no  confidence,  nor  had  she 
divulged  her  doubts  to  Stephen. 

Amongst  the  blouses  a  sheet  of  blue  ruled  paper, 
which  had  evidently  escaped  from  a  notebook, 
caught  her  eye.  Sentences  were  scrawled  on  it  in 
pencil.     Cecilia  read:    **That  poor  little  dead  thing 

33d 


23^  Fraternity 

was  so  grey  and  pinched,  and  I  seemed  to  realise 
all  of  a  sudden  how  awful  it  is  for  them.  I  must — I 
must — I  will  do  something!*' 

Cecilia  dropped  the  sheet  of  paper;  her  hand  was 
trembling.  There  was  no  mystery  in  that  departure 
now,  and  Stephen's  words  came  into  her  mind: 
**  It  's  all  very  well  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  nobody 
sympathises  with  them  more  than  I  do;  but  after 
that  it  becomes  destructive  of  all  comfort,  and  that 
does  no  good  to  any  one." 

The  soimd  sense  of  those  words  had  made  her  feel 
queer  when  they  were  spoken ;  they  were  even  more 
sensible  than  she  had  thought.  Did  her  little  daugh- 
ter, so  yotmg  and  pretty,  seriously  mean  to  plunge 
into  the  rescue  work  of  dismal  slums,  to  cut  herself 
adrift  from  sweet  sounds  and  scents  and  colours, 
from  music,  art,  from  dancing,  flowers,  and  all  that 
made  life  beautiful?  The  secret  forces  of  fastidious- 
ness, an  inborn  dread  of  the  fanatical,  and  all  her 
real  ignorance  of  what  such  a  life  was  like,  rose  in 
Cecilia  with  a  force  that  made  her  feel  quite  sick. 
Better  that  she  herself,  should  do  this  thing  than 
that  her  own  child  should  be  deprived  of  air  and 
light  and  all  the  just  environment  of  her  youth  and 
beauty.  **She  must  come  back — she  must  listen 
to  me!"  she  thought.  **We  will  begin  together; 
we  will  start  a  nice  little  criche  of  our  own,  or  perhaps 
Mrs.  Tallents  Smallpeace  could  find  us  some  regular 
work  on  one  of  her  committees." 

Then  suddenly  she  conceived  a  thought  which 
made  her  blood  run  positively  cold.  What  if  it  were 
a  matter  of  heredity?  What  if  Thyme  had  inherited 
her   grandfather's   single-mindedness?     Martin   was 


Stephen  Signs  Cheques  337 

giving  proof  of  it.  Things,  she  knew,  often  skipped 
a  generation  and  then  set  in  again.  Surely,  surely, 
it  could  not  have  done  that!  With  longing,  yet  with 
dread,  she  waited  for  the  sound  of  Stephen's  latchkey. 
It  came  at  its  appointed  time. 

Even  in  her  agitation  Cecilia  did  not  forget  to 
spare  him  all  she  could.  She  began  by  giving  him 
a  kiss,  and  then  said  casually:  "Thyme  has  got  a 
whim  into  her  head." 

** What  whim?" 

"It's  rather  what  you  might  expect,"  faltered 
Cecilia,  "from  her  going  about  so  much  with  Martin." 

Stephen's  face  assumed  at  once  an  air  of  dry 
derision ;  there  was  no  love  lost  between  him  and  his 
young  nephew-in-law. 

"The  Sanitist?"  he  said;  "ah!  well?" 

"She  has  gone  off  to  do  work  to  some  place  in  the 
Euston  Road.  I  Ve  had  a  telegram.  Oh,  and  I 
fotmd  this,  Stephen." 

She  held  out  to  him  half-heartedly  the  two  bits 
of  paper,  one  pinkish-brown,  the  other  blue.  Stephen 
saw  that  she  was  trembling.  He  took  them  from 
her,  read  them,  and  looked  at  her  again.  He  had  a 
real  affection  for  his  wife,  and  the  tradition  of  con- 
sideration for  other  people's  feelings  was  bred  in  him, 
so  that  at  this  moment,  so  vitally  disturbing,  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
give  it  a  reassuring  squeeze.  But  there  was  also  in 
Stephen  a  certain  primitive  virility,  pickled,  it  is 
true,  at  Cambridge,  and  in  the  Law  Courts  dried, 
but  still  preserving  something  of  its  possessive  and 
assertive  quality,  and  the  second  thing  he  did  was 
to  say,  "No,  I  *m  damned!" 

89 


338  Fraternity 

In  that  little  sentence  lay  the  whole  psychology 
of  his  attitude  towards  this  situation  and  all  the 
difference  between  two  classes  of  the  population.  Mr. 
Purcey  would  undoubtedly  have  said:  ''Welly  I  'm 
damned!"  Stephen,  by  saying  ''No,  I  'm  damned!" 
betrayed  that  before  he  could  be  damned  he  had  been 
obliged  to  wrestle  and  contend  with  something,  and 
Cecilia,  who  was  always  wrestling  too,  knew  this 
something  to  be  that  queer  new  thing,  a  Social  Con- 
science, the  dim  bogey  stalking  pale  about  the  houses 
of  those  who,  through  the  accidents  of  leisure  or  of 
culture,  had  once  left  the  door  open  to  the  suspicion: 
Is  it  possible  that  there  is  a  class  of  people  besides 
my  own,  or  am  I  dreaming?  Happy  the  millions, 
poor  or  rich,  not  yet  condemned  to  watch  the  wistful 
visiting  or  hear  the  husky  mutter  of  that  ghost, 
happy  in  their  homes,  blessed  by  a  less  disquieting 
god!    Such  were  Cecilia's  inner  feelings. 

Even  now  she  did  not  quite  plumb  the  depths  of 
Stephen's;  she  felt  his  struggle  with  the  ghost,  she 
felt  and  admired  his  victory.  What  she  did  not, 
could  not,  perhaps,  realise,  was  the  precise  nature  of 
the  outrage  inflicted  on  him  by  Thyme's  action. 
With  her — being  a  woman — the  matter  was  more 
practical;  she  did  not  grasp,  had  never  grasped,  the 
architectural  nature  of  Stephen's  mind — how  really 
hurt  he  was  by  what  did  not  seem  to  him  in  due  and 
proper  order. 

He  spoke:  "Why  on  earth,  if  she  felt  like  that, 
could  n't  she  have  gone  to  work  in  the  ordinary  way? 
She  could  have  put  herself  in  connection  with  some 
proper  charitable  society — I  should  never  have  ob- 
jected to  that.     It 's  all  that  young  Sanitary  idiot!" 


Stephen  Signs  Cheques  339 

**I  believe/'  Cecilia  faltered,  "that  Martin's  is  a 
society.  It  's  a  kind  of  medical  Socialism,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.    He  has  tremendous  faith  in  it." 

Stephen's  lip  curled. 

"He  may  have  as  much  faith  as  he  likes,"  he  said, 
with  the  restraint  that  was  one  of  his  best  qualities, 
**so  long  as  he  does  n't  infect  my  daughter  with  it." 

Cecilia  said  suddenly:  Oh!  what  are  we  to  do, 
Stephen?     Shall  I  go  over  there  to-night?" 

As  one  may  see  a  shadow  pass  down  on  a  cornfield, 
so  came  the  cloud  on  Stephen's  face.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  not  realised  till  then  the  full  extent 
of  what  this  meant.    For  a  minute  he  was  silent. 

"  Better  wait  for  her  letter,"  he  said  at  last.  "  He  's 
her  cousin,  after  all,  and  Mrs.  Grundy  's  dead — in 
the  Euston  Road,  at  all  events." 

So,  trying  to  spare  each  other  all  they  could  of 
anxiety,  and  careful  to  abstain  from  any  hint  of 
trouble  before  the  servants,  they  dined  and  went 
to  bed. 

At  that  hour  between  the  night  and  morning  when 
man's  vitality  is  lowest,  and  the  tremors  of  his  spirit, 
like  birds  of  ill  omen,  fly  round  and  round  him, 
beating  their  long  plumes  against  his  cheeks,  Stephen 
woke. 

It  was  very  still.  A  bar  of  pearly-grey  dawn 
showed  between  the  filmy  curtains,  which  stirred 
with  a  regular,  faint  movement,  like  the  puffing  of 
a  sleeper's  lips.  The  tide  of  the  wind,  woven  in  Mr. 
Stone's  fancy  of  the  souls  of  men,  was  at  low  ebb. 
Feebly  it  fanned  the  houses  and  hovels  where  the 
myriad  froms  of  men  lay  sleeping,  unconscious  of 
its  breath;  so  faint  life's  pulse,  that  men  and  shadows 


340  Fraternity 

seemed  for  that  brief  moment  mingled  in  the  town's 
sleep.  Over  the  million  varied  roofs,  over  the  hundred 
million  little  different  shapes  of  men  and  things, 
the  wind's  quiet,  visiting  wand  had  stilled  all  into 
the  wonder  state  of  nothingness,  when  life  is  passing 
into  death,  death  into  new  life,  and  self  is  at  its 
feeblest. 

And  Stephen's  self,  feeling  the  magnetic  currents 
of  that  ebb-tide  drawing  it  down  into  murmurous  slum- 
ber, out  beyond  the  sand-bars  of  individuality  and 
class,  threw  up  its  little  hands  and  began  to  cry  for 
help.  The  purple  sea  of  self-forgetfulness,  under 
the  dim,  impersonal  sky,  seemed  to  him  so  cold  and 
terrible.  It  had  no  limit  that  he  could  see,  no  rules 
but  such  as  hung  too  far  away,  written  in  the  hiero- 
glyphics of  paling  stars.  He  could  feel  no  order  in 
the  lift  and  lap  of  the  wan  waters  round  his  limbs. 
Where  would  those  waters  carry  him?  To  what 
depth  of  still  green  silence?  Was  his  own  little 
daughter  to  go  down  into  this  sea  that  knew  no  creed 
but  that  of  self-forgetfulness,  that  respected  neither 
class  nor  person — this  sea  where  a  few  wandering 
streaks  seemed  all  the  evidence  of  the  precious 
differences  between  mankind?    God  forbid  it! 

And,  turning  on  his  elbow,  he  looked  at  her  who 
had  given  him  this  daughter.  In  the  mystery  of  his 
wife's  sleeping  face— the  face  of  her  most  near  and 
dear  to  him — he  tried  hard  not  to  see  a  likeness  to 
Mr.  Stone.  He  fell  back  somewhat  comforted  with 
the  thought:  "That  old  chap  has  his  one  idea — 
his  Universal  Brotherhood.  He  's  absolutely  absorbed 
in  it.  I  don't  see  it  in  Cis's  face  a  bit.  Quite  the 
contrary." 


Stephen  Signs  Cheques  341 

But  suddenly  a  flash  of  clear,  hard  cynicism 
amounting  to  inspiration  utterly  disturbed  him:  The 
old  chap,  indeed,  was  so  wrapped  up  in  himself 
and  his  precious  book  as  to  be  quite  unconscious 
that  any  one  else  was  alive.  Could  one  be  every- 
body's brother  if  one  were  blind  to  their  existence? 
But  this  freak  of  Thyme's  was  an  actual  try  to  be 
everybody's  sister.  For  that,  he  supposed,  one 
must  forget  oneself.  Why,  it  was  really  even  a  worse 
case  than  that  of  Mr.  Stone!  And  to  Stephen  there 
was  something  awful  in  this  thought. 

The  first  small  bird  of  morning,  close  to  the  open 
window,  uttered  a  feeble  chirrup.  Into  Stephen's 
mind  there  leaped  without  reason  recollection  of  the 
morning  after  his  first  term  at  school,  when,  awakened 
by  the  birds,  he  had  started  up  and  fished  out  from 
under  his  pillow  his  catapult  and  the  box  of  shot  he 
had  brought  home  and  taken  to  sleep  with  him. 
He  seemed  to  see  again  those  leaden  shot  with  their 
bluish  sheen,  and  to  feel  them,  round,  and  soft,  and 
heavy,  rolling  about  his  palm.  He  seemed  to  hear 
Hilary's  surprised  voice  saying:  "Hallo,  Steviel 
you  awake?" 

No  one  had  ever  had  a  better  brother  than  old 
Hilary.  His  only  fault  was  that  he  had  always  been 
too  kind.  It  was  his  kindness  that  had  done  for 
him,  and  made  his  married  life  a  failure.  He  had 
never  asserted  himself  enough  with  that  woman, 
his  wife.  Stephen  turned  over  on  his  other  side. 
*'A11  this  confounded  business,"  he  thought,  "comes 
from  over-sympathising.  That  's  what  's  the  matter 
with  Thyme,  too."  Long  he  lay  thus,  while  the 
light    grew    stronger,    listening    to    Cecilia's    gentle 


342  Fraternity 

breathing,  disturbed  to  his  very  marrow  by  these 
thoughts. 

The  first  post  brought  no  letter  from  Thyme,  and 
the  announcement  soon  after,  that  Mr.  Hilary  had 
come  to  breakfast,  was  received  by  both  Stephen 
and  Cecilia  with  a  welcome  such  as  the  anxious 
give  to  anything  which  shows  promise  of  distracting 
them. 

Stephen  made  haste  down.  Hilary,  with  a  very 
grave  and  harassed  face,  was  in  the  dining-room. 
It  was  he,  however,  who,  after  one  look  at  Stephen, 
said: 

"  What  's  the  matter,  Stevie  ?  " 

Stephen  took  up  the  Standard,  In  spite  of  his 
self-control,  his  hand  shook  a  little. 

"It's  a  ridiculous  business,"  he  said.  **That 
precious  young  Sanitist  has  so  worked  his  con- 
founded theories  into  Thyme  that  she  has  gone  off 
to  the  Euston  Road  to  put  them  into  practice,  of 
all  things!" 

At  the  half-concerned  amusement  on  Hilary's 
face  his  quick  and  rather  narrow  eyes  glinted. 

"  It 's  not  exactly  for  you  to  laugh,  Hilary,"  he 
said.  "  It 's  all  of  a  piece  with  your  cursed  sen- 
timentality about  those  Hughs,  and  that  girl.  I 
knew  it  would  end  in  a  mess." 

Hilary  answered  this  imjust  and  unexpected 
outburst  by  a  look,  and  Stephen,  with  the  strange 
feeling  of  inferiority  which  would  come  to  him  in 
Hilary's  presence  against  his  better  judgment, 
lowered  his  own  glance. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Hilary  "if  any  bit  of  my 
character  has  crept  into  Thyme,  I  'm  truly  sorry." 


Stephen  Signs  Cheques  343 

Stephen  took  his  brother's  hand  and  gave  it  a 
good  grip;  and,  Cecilia  coming  in,  they  all  sat 
down. 

Cecilia  at  once  noted  what  Stephen  in  his  pre- 
occupation had  not — that  Hilary  had  come  to  tell 
them  something.  But  she  did  not  like  to  ask  him 
what  it  was,  though  she  knew  that  in  the  presence 
of  their  trouble  Hilary  was  too  delicate  to  obtrude 
his  own.  She  did  not  like,  either,  to  talk  of  her 
trouble  in  the  presence  of  his.  They  all  talked, 
therefore,  of  indifferent  things — ^what  music  they 
had  heard,  what  plays  they  had  seen — eating  but 
little,  and  drinking  tea.  In  the  middle  of  a  remark 
about  the  opera,  Stephen,  looking  up,  saw  Martin 
himself  standing  in  the  doorway.  The  young  Sanitist 
looked  pale,  dusty,  and  dishevelled.  He  advanced 
towards  Cecilia,  and  said  with  his  usual  cool 
determination : 

"  I  Ve  brought  her  back,  Aunt  Cis." 

At  that  moment,  fraught  with  such  relief,  such 
pure  joy,  such  desire  to  say  a  thousand  things, 
Cecilia  could  only  murmur:   "Oh,  Martin!" 

Stephen,  who  had  jumped  up,  asked:  "Where  is 
she?" 

"Gone  to  her  room." 

"Then  perhaps,"  said  Stephen,  regaining  at  once 
his  dry  composure,  "  you  will  give  us  some  explanation 
of  this  folly." 

"  She  *s  no  use  to  us  at  present/* 

"Indeed!" 

"None." 

"  Then,"  said  Stephen,  "  kindly  understand  that  we 
have  no  use  for  you  in  future,  or  any  of  your  sort." 


344  Fraternity 

Martin  looked  round  the  table,  resting  his  eyes  on 
each  in  turn. 

"  You  're  right,"  he  said.     "  Good-bye ! " 

Hilary  and  Cecilia  had  risen,  too.  There  was 
silence.     Stephen  crossed  to  the  door. 

"You  seem  to  me,'*  he  said  suddenly,  in  his  driest 
voice,  "with  your  new  manners  and  ideas,  quite  a 
pernicious  youth.*' 

Cecilia  stretched  her  hands  out  towards  Martin, 
and  there  was  a  faint  tinkling,  as  of  chains. 

"You  must  laiow,  dear,"  she  said,  "how  anxious 
we  Ve  all  been.  Of  course,  your  uncle  does  n't 
mean  that." 

The  same  scornful  tenderness  with  which  he  was 
wont  to  look  at  Thyme  passed  into  Martin's  face. 

"All  right,  Aunt  Cis,"  he  said;  "if  Stephen 
doesn't  mean  it,  he  ought  to.  To  mean  things  is 
what  matters."  He  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead. 
"Give  that  to  Thyme  for  me,"  he  said.  "I  shan't 
see  her  for  a  bit." 

"  You  '11  never  see  her,  sir,"  said  Stephen  dryly, 
"  if  I  can  help  it !  The  liquor  of  your  Sanitism  is  too 
bright  and  effervescent." 

Martin's  smile  broadened.  "For  old  bottles,"  he 
said,  and  with  another  slow  look  round  went  out. 

Stephen  s  mouth  assumed  its  driest  twist.  "  Bump- 
tious young  devil!"  he  said.  "If  that  is  the  new 
young  man,  defend  us! " 

Over  the  cool  dining-room,  with  its  faint  scent  of 
pinks,  of  melon,  and  of  ham,  came  silence.  Suddenly 
Cecilia  glided  from  the  room.  Her  light  footsteps 
were  heard  hurrying,  now  that  she  was  not  visible, 
up  to  Thyme. 


Stephen  Signs  Cheques  345 

Hilary,  too,  had  moved  towards  the  door.  In 
spite  of  his  preoccupation,  Stephen  could  not  help 
noticing  how  very  worn  his  brother  looked. 

"You  look  quite  seedy,  old  boy,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  have  some  brandy?'* 

Hilary  shook  his  head. 

"  Now  that  you  've  got  Thyme  back,"  he  said, 
**  I  'd  better  let  you  know  my  news.  I  'm  going 
abroad  to-morrow.  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall 
come  back  again  to  life  with  B." 

Stephen  gave  a  low  whistle ;  then,  pressing  Hilary's 
arm,  he  said:  "Anything  you  decide,  old  man,  111 
always  back  you  in,  but " 

"I  'm  going  alone.*' 

In  his  relief  Stephen  violated  the  laws  of 
reticence. 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!  I  was  afraid  you  were 
beginning  to  lose  your  head  about  that  girl." 

"I'm  not  quite  fool  enough,"  said  Hilary,  "to 
imagine  that  such  a  liaison  would  be  anything  but 
misery  in  the  long-run.  If  I  took  the  child  I  should 
have  to  stick  to  her;  but  I  'm  not  proud  of  leaving 
her  in  the  lurch,  Stevie." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  was  so  bitter  that  Stephen 
seized  his  hand. 

"  My  dear  old  man,  you  're  too  kind.  Why,  she  's 
no  hold  on  you — not  the  smallest  in  the  world!" 

"  Except  the  hold  of  this  devotion  I  've  roused  in 
her,  Gk)d  knows  how,  and  her  destitution." 

"You  let  these  people  haunt  you,"  said  Stephen. 
'*  It 's  quite  a  mistake— it  really  is." 

"  I  had  forgotten  to  mention  that  I  am  not  an 
iceberg,"  muttered  Hilary. 


346  Fraternity 

Stephen  looked  into  his  face  without  speaking, 
then  with  the  utmost  earnestness  he  said : 

"  However  much  you  may  be  attracted,  it 's 
simply  unthinkable  for  a  man  like  you  to  go  outside 
his  class." 

"Class!  Yes!"  muttered  Hilary.  "Good-bye!" 
And  with  a  long  grip  of  bis  brother's  hand  he  went 
away. 

Stephen  turned  to  the  window.  For  all  the  care 
and  contrivance  bestowed  on  the  view,  far  away  to 
the  left  the  back  courts  of  an  alley  could  be  seen; 
and  as  though  some  gadfly  had  planted  in  him  its 
small  poisonous  sting  he  moved  back  from^  the  sight 
at  once. 

"Confusion!"  he  thought.  "Are  we  never  to  get 
rid  of  these  infernal  people?" 

His  eyes  lighted  on  the  melon.  A  single  slice  lay 
by  itself  on  a  blue-green  dish.  Leaning  over  a  plate, 
with  a  desperation  quite  unlike  himself,  he  took  an 
enormous  bite.  Again  and  again  he  bit  the  slice, 
then  almost  threw  it  from  him,  and  dipped  his  fingers 
in  a  bowl. 

"Thank  God!"  he  thought,  "that 's  over!  What 
an  escape!" 

Whether  he  meant  Hilary's  escape  or  Thyme's 
was  doubtful,  but  there  came  on  him  a  longing  to  rush 
up  to  his  little  daughter's  room,  and  hug  her.  He 
suppressed  it,  and  sat  down  at  the  bureau;  he  was 
suddenly  experiencing  a  sensation  such  as  he  had 
sometimes  felt  on  a  perfect  day,  or  after  physical 
danger,  of  too  much  benefit,  of  something  that  he 
would  like  to  return  thanks  for,  yet  knew  not  how. 
His  hand  stole  to  the  inner  pocket  of  his  black  coat. 


Stephen  Signs  Cheques  347 

It  stole  out  again;  there  was  a  cheque-book  in  it. 
Before  his  mind*s  eye,  starting  up  one  after  the 
other,  he  saw  the  names  of  the  societies  he  supported, 
or  meant  sometime,  if  he  could  afford  it,  to  support. 
He  reached  his  hand  out  for  a  pen.  The  still  small 
noise  of  the  nib  travelling  across  the  cheques  mingled 
with  the  buzzing  of  a  single  fly. 

These  sounds  Cecilia  heard,  when,  from  the  open 
door,  she  saw  the  thin  back  of  her  husband's  neck, 
with  its  softly  graduated  hair,  bent  forward  above 
the  bureau.  She  stole  over  to  him,  and  pressed 
herself  against  his  arm. 

Stephen,  staying  the  progress  of  his  pen,  looked 
up  at  her.  Their  eyes  met,  and,  bending  down, 
Cecilia  put  her  cheek  to  his. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THB  FLOWERING  OF  THE  ALOB 

THIS  same  day,  returning  through  Kensington 
Gardens,  from  his  preparations  for  departure, 
Hilary  came  suddenly  on  Bianca  standing  by  the 
shores  of  the  Round  Pond. 

To  the  eyes  of  the  frequenters  of  these  Elysian 
fields,  where  so  many  men  and  shadows  daily  steal 
recreation,  to  the  eyes  of  all  drinking  in  those  green 
gardens  their  honeyed  draught  of  peace,  this  husband 
and  wife  appeared  merely  a  distinguished-looking 
couple,  animated  by  a  leisured  harmony.  For  the 
time  was  not  yet  when  men  were  one,  and  could  tell 
by  instinct  what  was  passing  in  each  other's  hearts. 

In  truth,  there  were  not  too  many  people  in  London 
who,  in  their  situation,  would  have  behaved  with 
such  seemliness — ^not  too  many  so  civilised  as  they! 

Estranged,  and  soon  to  part,  they  retained  the 
manner  of  accord  up  to  the  last.  Not  for  them 
the  matrimonial  brawl,  the  solemn  accusation  and 
recrimination,  the  pathetic  protestations  of  pro- 
prietary rights.  For  them  no  sacred  view  that  at 
all  costs  they  must  make  each  other  miserable — ^not 
even  the  belief  that  they  had  the  right  to  do  so. 
No,  there  was  no  relief  for  their  sore  hearts.  They 
walked  side  by  side,  treating  each  other's  feelings 
with  respect  as  if  there  had  been  no  terrible  heart- 
burnings  throughout   the   eighteen   years  in   which 

-     348  ^ 


The  Flowering  of  the  Aloe       349 

they  had  first  loved,  then,  through  mysterious  dis- 
harmony, drifted  apart;  as  if  there  were  now  between 
them  no  question  of  this  girl. 

Presently  Hilary  said : 

*'  I  Ve  been  into  town  and  made  my  preparations; 
I  *m  starting  to-morrow  for  the  mountains.  There 
will  be  no  necessity  for  you  to  leave  your  father." 

"Are  you  taking  her?'' 

It  was  beautifully  uttered,  without  a  trace  of  bias 
or  curiosity,  with  an  unforced  accent,  neither  in- 
different nor  too  interested — no  one  could  have 
told  whether  it  was  meant  for  generosity  or  malice. 
Hilary  took  it  for  the  former. 

"Thank  you,*'  he  said;  "that  comedy  is  finished." 

Close  to  the  edge  of  the  Round  Pond  a  swan-like 
cutter  was  putting  out  to  sea;  in  the  wake  of  this 
fair  creature  a  tiny  scooped-out  bit  of  w^ood,  with 
three  feathers  for  masts,  bobbed  and  trembled ;  and 
the  two  small  ragged  boys  who  owned  that  little 
galley  were  stretching  bits  of  branch  out  towards 
her  over  the  bright  waters. 

Bianca  looked,  without  seeing,  at  this  proof  of 
man's  pride  in  his  own  property.  A  thin  gold  chain 
hung  round  her  neck;  suddenly  she  thrust  it  into 
the  bosom  of  her  dress.  It  had  broken  into  two, 
between  her  fingers. 

They  reached  home  without  another  word. 

At  the  door  of  Hilary's  study  sat  Miranda.  The 
little  person  answered  his  caress  by  a  shiver  of  her 
sleek  skin,  then  curled  herself  down  again  on  the 
spot  she  had  already  warmed. 

"Are  n't  you  coming  in  with  me?"  he  said, 

Miranda  did  not  move. 


S$o  Fraternity 

The  reason  for  her  refusal  was  apparent  when 
Hilary  had  entered.  Close  to  the  long  bookcase, 
behind  the  bust  of  Socrates,  stood  the  little  model. 
Very  still,  as  if  fearing  to  betray  itself  by  sound  or 
movement,  was  her  figure  in  its  blue-green  frock, 
and  a  brimless  toque  of  brown  straw,  with  two 
purplish  roses  squashed  together  into  a  band  of 
darker  velvet.  Beside  those  roses  a  tiny  peacock's 
feather  had  been  slipped  in^-unholy  little  visitor,  slant- 
ing backward,  trying,  as  it  were,  to  draw  all  eyes,  yet 
to  escape  notice.  And,  wedged  between  the  grim  white 
bust  and  the  dark  bookcase,  the  girl  herself  was  like 
some  unlawful  spirit  which  had  slid  in  there,  and  stood 
trembling  and  vibrating,  ready  to  be  shuttered  out. 

Before  this  apparition  Hilary  recoiled  towards  the 
door,  hesitated,  and  returned. 

"You  should  not  have  come  here,*'  he  muttered, 
"after  what  we  said  to  you  yesterday.'' 

The  little  model  answered  quickly:  *'But  I  've 
seen  Hughs,  Mr.  Dallison.  He  's  found  out  where  I 
live.  Oh,  he  does  look  dreadful;  he  frightens  me. 
I  can't  ever  stay  there  now." 

She  had  come  a  little  out  of  her  hiding-place,  and 
stood  fidgeting  her  hands  and  looking  down. 

"She  's  not  speaking  the  truth,"  thought  Hilary. 

The  little  model  gave  him  a  furtive  glance.  "I 
did  see  him,"  she  said.  "I  must  go  right  away  now; 
it  would  n't  be  safe,  would  it?"  Again  she  gave  him 
that  swift  look. 

Hilary  thought  suddenly:  "She  is  using  my  own 
weapon  against  me.  If  she  has  seen  the  man,  he 
didn't  frighten  her.  It  serves  me  right!"  With 
a  dry  laugh,  he  turned  his  back. 


The  Flowering  of  the  Aloe       351 

There  was  a  rustling  sound.  The  little  model  had 
moved  out  of  her  retreat,  and  stood  between  him  and 
the  door.  At  this  stealthy  action,  Hilary  felt  once 
more  the  tremor  which  had  come  over  him  when  he 
sat  beside  her  in  the  Broad  Walk  after  the  baby's 
funeral.  Outside  in  the  garden  a  pigeon  was  pouring 
forth  a  continuous  love-song;  Hilary  heard  nothing 
of  it,  conscious  only  of  the  figure  of  the  girl  behind 
him — that  young  figure  which  had  twined  itself 
about  his  senses. 

**  Well,  what  is  it  you  want?''  he  said  at  last. 

The  little  model  answered  by  another  question. 
**Are  you  really  going  away,  Mr.  Dallison?*' 
1  am. 

She  raised  her  hands  to  the  level  of  her  breast  as 
though  she  meant  to  clasp  them  together;  without 
doing  so,  however,  she  dropped  them  to  her  sides. 
They  were  cased  in  very  worn  suede  gloves,  and  in 
this  dire  moment  of  embarrassment  Hilary's  eyes 
fastened  themselves  on  those  slim  hands  moving 
against  her  skirt. 

The  little  model  tried  at  once  to  slip  them  away 
behind  her.  Suddenly  she  said  in  her  matter-of- 
fact  voice:  **I  only  wanted  to  ask — Can't  I  come 
too?'' 

At  this  question,  whose  simplicity  might  have  made 
an  angel  smile,  Hilary  experienced  a  sensation  as  if 
his  bones  had  been  turned  to  water.  It  was  strange — 
delicious — as  though  he  had  been  suddenly  offered 
all  that  he  wanted  of  her,  without  all  those  things 
that  he  did  not  want.  He  stood  regarding  her  silently. 
Her  cheeks  and  neck  were  red;  there  was  a  red 
tinge,  too,  in  her  eyelids,  deepening  the  '*  chicory- 


352  Fraternity 

flower"  colour  of  her  eyes.  She  began  to  speak, 
repeating  a  lesson  evidently  learned  by  heart. 

"I  wouldn't  be  in  your  way*  I  wouldn't  cost 
much.  I  could  do  everything  you  wanted.  I  could 
learn  type-writing.  I  needn't  live  too  near,  or 
that,  if  you  did  n't  want  me,  because  of  people 
talking;  I  'm  used  to  being  alone.  Oh,  Mr.  Dallison, 
I  could  do  everything  for  you.  I  would  n't  mind 
anything,  and  I  'm  not  like  some  girls;  I  do  know 
what  I  *m  talking  about." 

••Do  you?" 

The  little  model  put  her  hands  up,  and,  covering 
her  face,  said: 

"If  you'd  try  and  see!" 

Hilary's  sensuous  feeling  almost  vanished;  a 
limip  rose  in  his  throat  instead. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  '*you  are  too  generous!" 

The  little  model  seemed  to  know  instinctively 
that  by  touching  his  spirit  she  had  lost  ground. 
Uncovering  her  face,  she  spoke  breathlessly,  growing 
very  pale: 

"Oh  no,  I 'm  not.  I  zoaw/ to  be  let  come ;  I  don't 
want  to  stay  here.  I  know  I  '11  get  into  mischief  if 
you  don't  take  me—oh,  I  know  I  will!" 

"If  I  were  to  let  you  come  with  me,"  said  Hilary, 
"what  then?  What  sort  of  companion  should  I  be 
to  you,  or  you  to  me?  You  know  very  well.  Only 
one  sort.  It 's  no  use  pretending,  child,  that  we  've 
any  interests  in  common." 

The  little  model  came  closer. 

"I  know  what  I  am,"  she  said,  "and  I  don't  want  to 
be  anything  else.  I  can  do  what  you  tell  me  to,  and  I 
shan't  ever  complain.    I  'm  not  worth  any  morel" 


The  Flowering  of  the  Aloe       353 

"You  Ve  worth  more,"  muttered  Hilary,  **than  I 
can  ever  give  you,  and  I  'm  worth  more  than  you 
can  ever  give  me.'* 

The  little  model  tried  to  answer,  but  her  words 
would  not  pass  her  throat;  she  threw  her  head  back 
trying  to  free  them,  and  stood,  swaying.  Seeing 
her  like  this  before  him,  white  as  a  sheet,  with  her 
eyes  closed  and  her  lips  parted,  as  though  about  to 
faint,  Hilary  seized  her  by  the  shoulders.  At  the 
touch  of  those  soft  shoulders,  his  face  became  suffused 
with  blood,  his  lips  trembled.  Suddenly  her  eyes 
opened  ever  so  little  between  their  lids,  and  looked 
at  him.  And  the  perception  that  she  was  not  really 
going  to  faint,  that  it  was  a  little  desperate  wile  of 
this  child  Delilah,  made  him  wrench  away  his  hands. 
The  moment  she  felt  that  grasp  relax  she  sank  down 
and  clasped  his  knees,  pressing  them  to  her  bosom 
so  that  he  could  not  stir.  Closer  and  closer  she 
pressed  them  to  her,  till  it  seemed  as  though  she 
must  be  bruising  her  flesh.  Her  breath  came  in 
sobs ;  her  eyes  were  closed ;  her  lips  quivered  upwards. 
In  the  clutch  of  her  clinging  body  there  seemed 
suddenly  the  whole  of  woman's  power  of  self-abandon- 
ment. It  was  just  that,  which  at  this  moment,  so 
horribly  painful  to  him,  prevented  Hilary  from 
seizing  her  In  his  arms — just  that  queer  seeming 
self-effacement,  as  though  she  were  lost  to  knowledge 
of  what  she  did.  It  seemed  too  brutal,  too  like 
taking  advantage  of  a  child. 

From  calm  is  born  the  wind,  the  ripple  from  the 
still  pool,  self  out  of  nothingness — so  all  passes 
imperceptibly,  no  man  knows  how.  The  little 
model's  moment  of  self-oblivion   passed,   and  into 


354  Fraternity 

her  wet  eyes  her  plain,  twisting  spirit  suddenly 
writhed  up  again,  for  all  the  world  as  if  she  had 
said:  "I  won't  let  you  go;  I  '11  keep  you — I  '11  keep 
you/' 

Hilary  broke  away  from  her,  and  she  fell  forward 
on  her  face. 

"Get  up,  child,"  he  said— "get  up;  for  God's 
sake  don't  lie  there!"  ^<* 

She  rose  obediently,  choking  down  her  sobs, 
mopping  her  face  with  a  small,  dirty  handkerchief. 
Suddenly,  taking  a  step  towards  him,  she  clenched 
both  her  hands  and  struck  them  downwards. 

"I  '11  go  to  the  bad,"  she  said — "I  will—ii  you 
don't  take  me!"  And,  her  breast  heaving,  her 
hair  all  loose,  she  stared  straight  into  his  face  with 
her  red-rimmed  eyes.  Hilary  turned  suddenly, 
took  a  book  up  from  the  writing-table,  and  opened 
it.  His  face  was  again  suffused  with  blood;  his 
hands  and  lips  trembled;  his  eyes  had  a  queer  fixed 
stare. 

"Not  now,  not  now,"  he  muttered;  "go  away 
now.     I  '11  come  to  you  to-morrow." 

The  little  model  gave  him  the  look  a  dog  gives 
you  when  it  asks  if  you  are  deceiving  him.  She 
made  a  sign  on  her  breast,  as  a  Catholic  might  make 
the  sign  of  his  religion,  drawing  her  fingers  together, 
and  clutching  at  herself  with  them,  then  passed  her 
little  dirty  handkerchief  once  more  over  her  eyes, 
and,  turning  round,  went  out. 

Hilary  remained  standing  where  he  was,  read- 
ing the  open  book  without  apprehending  what  it 
was. 

There  was  a  wistful  sound,  as  of  breath  escaping 


The  Flowering  of  the  Aloe       3SS 

hurriedly.  Mr.  Stone  was  standing  in  the  open 
doorway. 

**  She  has  been  here,"  he  said.    **  I  saw  her  go  away." 

Hilary  dropped  the  book;  his  nerves  were  utterly 
unstrung.  Then,  pointing  to  a  chair,  he  said:  "Won't 
you  sit  down,  sir?" 

Mr.  Stone  came  close  up  to  his  son-in-law. 

**Is  she  in  trouble?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Hilary. 

"She  is  too  young  to  be  in  trouble.  Did  you  tell 
her  that?" 

Hilary  shook  his  head. 

"Has  the  man  hurt  her?" 

Again  Hilary  shook  his  head. 

"What  is  her  trouble,  then?"  said  Mr.  Stone. 

The  closeness  of  this  catechism,  the  intent  stare  of 
the  old  man's  eyes,  were  more  than  Hilary  could 
bear.     He  turned  away. 

"You  ask  me  something  that  I  cannot  answer.** 

"Why?" 

"It  is  a  private  matter." 

With  the  blood  still  beating  in  his  temples,  his  lips 
still  quivering,  and  the  feeling  of  the  girl's  clasp 
round  his  knees,  he  almost  hated  this  old  man  who 
stood  there  putting  such  blind  questions. 

Then  suddenly  in  Mr.  Stone's  eyes  he  saw  a 
startling  change,  as  in  the  face  of  a  man  who  regains 
consciousness  after  days  of  vacancy.  His  whole 
countenance  had  become  alive  with  a  sort  of  jealous 
understanding.  The  warmth  which  the  little  model 
brought  to  his  old  spirit  had  licked  up  the  fog  of  his 
Idea,  and  made  him  see  what  was  going  on  before 
his  eyes. 


3s6  Fraternity 

At  that  look  Hilary  braced  himself  against  the  wall. 

A  flush  spread  slowly  over  Mr.  Stone  *s  face.  He 
spoke  with  rare  hesitation.  In  this  sudden  coming 
back  to  the  world  of  men  and  things  he  seemed 
astray. 

"I  am  not  going,"  he  stammered,  "to  ask  you 
any  more.     I  could  not  pry  into  a  private  matter. 

That  would  not  be "     His  voice  failed;  he  looked 

down. 

Hilary  bowed,  touched  to  the  quick  by  the  return 
to  life  of  this  old  man,  so  long  lost  to  facts,  and  by 
the  delicacy  in  that  old  face. 

"I  will  not  intrude  further  on  your  trouble,'! 
said  Mr.  Stone,  "whatever  it  may  be.  I  am  sorry 
that  you  are  unhappy,  too," 

Very  slowly,  and  without  again  looking  up  at 
his  son-in-law,  he  went  out. 

Hilary  remained  standing  where  he  had  been  left 
against  the  wall. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  HOME-COMING  OF  HUGHS 

HILARY  had  evidently  been  right  in  thinking 
the  little  model  was  not  speaking  the  truth 
when  she  said  she  had  seen  Hughs,  for  it  was 
not  until  early  in  the  following  morning  that  three 
persons  traversed  the  long  winding  road  leading 
from  Wormwood  Scrubs  to  Kensington.  They 
preserved  silence,  not  because  there  was  nothing  in 
their  hearts  to  be  expressed,  but  because  there  was 
too  much;  and  they  walked  in  the  giraffe-like  form- 
ation peculiar  to  the  lower  classes — Hughs  in  front; 
Mrs.  Hughs  to  the  left,  a  foot  or  two  behind;  and 
a  yard  behind  her,  to  the  left  again,  her  son  Stanley. 
They  made  no  sign  of  noticing  any  one  in  the  road 
besides  themselves,  and  no  one  in  the  road  gave 
sign  of  noticing  that  they  were  there;  but  in  their 
three  minds,  so  differently  fashioned,  a  verb  was 
dumbly,  and  with  varying  emotion,  being  conjugated: 

"  I  've  been  in  prison." 
"You  *ve  been  in  prison.** 
**  He  's  been  in  prison." 

Beneath  the  seeming  acquiescence  of  a  man  subject 
to  domination  from  his  birth  up,  those  four  words  cov- 
ered in  Hughs  such  a  whirlpool  of  surging  sensa- 
tion, such  ferocity  of  bitterness,  and  madness,  and 
defiance,  that  no  outpouring  could  have  appreciably 

357 


35^  Fraternity 

relieved  its  course.  The  same  four  words  summed 
up  in  Mrs.  Hughs  so  strange  a  mingling  of  fear, 
commiseration,  loyalty,  shame,  and  trembling  curi- 
osity at  the  new  factor  which  had  come  into  the 
life  of  all  this  little  family  walking  giraffe-like  back 
to  Kensington  that  to  have  gone  beyond  them  would 
have  been  like  plunging  into  a  wintry  river.  To 
their  son  the  four  words  were  as  a  legend  of  romance, 
conjuring  up  no  definite  image,  lighting  merely  the 
glow  of  wonder. 

"Don't  lag,  Stanley.     Keep  up  with  your  father." 

The  little  boy  took  three  steps  at  an  increased 
pace,  then  fell  behind  again.  His  black  eyes  seemed 
to  answer:  "You  say  that  because  you  don't  know 
what  else  to  say."  And  without  alteration  in  their 
giraffe-like  formation  but  again  in  silence,  the  three 
proceeded. 

In  the  heart  of  the  seamstress  doubt  and  fear 
were  being  slowly  knit  into  dread  of  the  first  sound 
to  pass  her  husband's  lips.  What  would  he  ask? 
How  should  she  answer?  Would  he  talk  wild,  or 
would  he  talk  sensible?  Would  he  have  forgotten 
that  young  girl,  or  had  he  nursed  and  nourished  his 
wicked  fancy  in  the  house  of  grief  and  silence? 
Would  he  ask  where  the  baby  was?  Would  he  speak 
a  kind  word  to  her?  But  alongside  her  dread  there 
was  fluttering  within  her  the  undying  resolution 
not  to  "let  him  go  from  her,  if  it  were  ever  so,  to 
that  young  girl." 

"Don't  lag,  Stanley!" 

At  the  reiteration  of  those  words  Hughs  spoke. 

"  Let  the  boy  alone !  You  '11  be  nagging  at  the 
baby  next!'* 


The  Home-Coming  of  Hughs       359 

Hoarse  and  grating,  like  sounds  issuing  from  a 
damp  vault,  was  this  first  speech. 

The  seamstress's  eyes  brimmed  over. 

"I  won't  get  the  chance,"  she  stammered  out. 
*' He's  gone!" 

Hughs's  teeth  gleamed  like  those  of  a  dog  at  bay. 

"Who  's  taken  him?    You  let  me  know  the  name." 

Tears  rolled  down  the  seamstress's  cheeks;  she 
could  not  answer.  Her  little  son's  thin  voice  rose 
instead: 

"  Baby  *s  dead.  We  buried  him  in  the  ground.  I 
saw  it.     Mr.  Creed  came  in  the  cab  with  me." 

White  flecks  appeared  suddenly  at  the  comers  of 
Hughs's  lips.  He  wiped  the  back  of  his  hand  across 
his  mouth,  and  once  more,  giraffe-like,  the  little  family 
marched  on.   .    .    . 

"  Westminister,"  in  his  threadbare  summer  jacket — 
for  the  day  was  warm — had  been  standing  for  some 
little  time  in  Mrs.  Budgen's  doorway  on  the  ground- 
floor  at  Hound  Street.  Kiiowing  that  Hughs  was 
to  be  released  that  morning  early,  he  had,  with  the 
circumspection  and  foresight  of  his  character,  reasoned 
thus:  "I  shan't  lie  easy  in  my  bed,  I  shan't  hev  no 
peace  until  I  know  that  low  feller 's  not  a-goin'  to 
misdemean  himself  with  me.  It 's  no  good  to  go  a- 
puttin'  of  it  off.  I  don't  want  him  comin'  to  my 
room  attackin'  of  old  men.  I  '11  be  previous  with 
him  in  the  passage.  The  lame  woman  '11  let  me.  I 
shan't  trouble  her.  She  '11  be  palliable  between  me 
and  him,  in  case  he  goes  for  to  attack  me.  /  ain't 
afraid  of  him." 

But,  as  the  minutes  of  waiting  went  by,  his  old 
tongue,  like  that  of  a  dog  expecting  chastisement. 


360  Fraternity 

appeared  ever  more  frequently  to  moisten  his  twisted 
discoloured  lips.  "This  comes  of  mixin'  up  with 
soldiers/*  he  thought,  "and  a  low-class  o*  man  like 
that.  I  ought  to  ha*  changed  my  lodgin's.  He  '11 
be  as  kin*  me  where  that  young  girl  is,  I  should  n*t 
wonder,  an'  him  lost  his  character  and  his  job,  and 
everything,  and  all  because  o*  women!*' 

He  watched  the  broad-faced  woman,  Mrs.  Budgen, 
in  whose  grey  eyes  the  fighting  light  so  fortunately 
never  died,  painfully  doing  out  her  rooms,  and 
propping  herself  against  the  chest  of  drawers  whereon 
clustered  china  cups  and  dogs  as  thick  as  toadstools 
on  a  bank. 

"I  've  told  my  Charlie,"  she  said,  "to  keep  clear 
of  Hughs  a  bit.  They  comes  out  as  prickly  as  hedge- 
hogs. Pick  a  quarrel  as  soon  as  look  at  you,  they 
will." 

"Oh,  dear,"  thought  Creed,  "she's  full  o'  cold 
comfort."  But,  careful  of  his  dignity,  he  answered: 
"  I  'm  a-waitin'  here  to  engage  the  situation.  You 
don't  think  he  *11  attack  of  me  with  definition  at 
this  time  in  the  momin'?** 

The  lame  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  He  '11 
have  had  a  drop  of  something,"  she  said,  "before 
he  comes  home.  They  gets  a  cold  feelin*  in  the 
stomach  in  them  places,  poor  creatures!'* 

The  old  butler's  heart  quavered  up  into  his  mouth. 
He  lifted  his  shaking  hand,  and  put  it  to  his  lips,  as 
though  to  readjust  himself. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said;  I  ought  to  ha'  given  notice, 
and  took  my  things  away;  but  there,  poor  woman,  it 
seemed  a-hittin'  of  her  when  she  was  down.  And 
I  don't  want  to  make  no  move,     I  ain't  got  no  one 


The  Homc-Coming  of  Hughs       361 

else  that  's  interested  in  me.  This  woman  's  very 
good  about  mendin'  of  my  clothes.  Oh,  dear,  yes; 
she  don't  grudge  a  little  thing  like  that!" 

The  lame  woman  hobbled  from  her  post  of  rest, 
and  began  to  make  the  bed  with  the  frown  that 
always  accompanied  a  task  which  strained  the  con- 
tracted muscles  of  her  leg.  "If  you  don't  help 
your  neighbour,  your  neighbour  don't  help  you,"  she 
said  sententiously. 

Creed  fixed  his  iron-rimmed  gaze  on  her  in  silence. 
He  was  considering  perhaps  how  he  stood  with 
regard  to  Hughs  in  the  light  of  that  remark. 

**I  attended  of  his  baby's  fxmeral,"  he  said.  "Oh, 
dear,  he  's  here  already!" 

The  family  of  Hughs,  indeed,  stood  in  the  door- 
way. The  spiritual  process  by  which  "Westminister'* 
had  gone  through  life  was  displayed  completely  in 
the  next  few  seconds.  "It  's  so  important  for  me 
to  keep  alive  and  well,"  his  eyes  seemed  saying. 
"I  know  the  class  of  man  you  are,  but  now  you  're 
here  it  's  not  a  bit  o'  use  my  bein'  frightened.  I  'm 
bound  to  get  up-sides  with  you.  Ho!  yes;  keep 
yourself  to  yourself,  and  don't  you  let  me  hev  any  o* 
your  nonsense,  'cause  I  won't  stand  it.    Oh,  dear,  no!" 

Beads  of  perspiration  stood  thick  on  his  patchily 
coloured  forehead;  with  lips  stiffening,  and  intently 
staring  eyes  he  waited  for  what  the  released  prisoner 
would  say. 

Hughs,  whose  face  had  blanched  in  the  prison  to 
a  sallow  grey- white  hue,  and  whose  black  eyes 
seemed  to  have  sunk  back  into  his  head,  slowly 
looked  the  old  man  up  and  down.  At  last  he  took 
his  cap  off,  showing  his  cropped  hair. 


362  Fraternity 

'*You  got  me  that,  daddy,"  he  said,  ''but  I  don't 
bear  you  malice.  Come  up  and  have  a  cup  o*  tea 
with  us.'* 

And,  turning  on  his  heel,  he  began  to  mount  the 
stairs,  followed  by  his  wife  and  child.  Breathing 
hard,  the  old  butler  mounted  too. 

In  the  room  on  the  second  floor,  where  the  baby 
no  longer  lived,  a  haddock  on  the  table  was  en- 
deavouring to  be  fresh;  round  it  were  slices  of 
bread  on  plates,  a  piece  of  butter  in  a  pie-dish,  a 
teapot,  brown  sugar  in  a  basin,  and,  side  by  side,  a 
little  jug  of  cold  blue  milk  and  a  half-empty  bottle 
of  red  vinegar.  Close  to  one  plate  a  bunch-^  of  stocks 
and  gillyflowers  reposed  on  the  dirty  tablecloth, 
as  though  dropped  and  forgotten  by  the  God  of 
Love.  Their  faint  perfume  stole  through  the  other 
odours.    The  old  butler  fixed  his  eyes  on  it. 

"The  poor  woman  bought  that,'*  he  thought, 
**hopin'  for  to  remind  him  of  old  days.  She  had 
them  flowers  on  her  weddin'-day,  I  shouldn't  won- 
der!*' This  poetical  conception  surprising  him,  he 
turned  towards  the  little  boy,  and  said:  **This  '11 
be  a  memorial  to  you,  as  you  gets  older."  And 
without  another  word  all  sat  down. 

They  ate  in  silence,  and  the  old  butler  thought: 
"That  'addick  ain't  what  it  was;  but  a  beautiful 
cup  o'  tea.  He  don't  eat  nothing;  he  's  more 
ameniable  to  reason  than  I  expected.  There  's  no 
one  won't  be  too  pleased  to  see  him  now!" 

His  eyes,  travelling  to  the  spot  from  which  the 
bayonet  had  been  removed,  rested  on  the  print  of 
the  Nativity.  "'Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto 
Me/''  he  thought,  "'and  forbid  them  not.'     He  '11 


The  Home-Coming  of  Hughs       363 

be  glad  to  hear  there  was  two  carriages  followed 
him  home." 

And,  taking  his  time,  he  cleared  his  throat  in 
preparation  for  speech.  But  before  the  singular 
muteness  of  this  family  sounds  would  not  come. 
Finishing  his  tea,  he  tremblingly  arose.  Things 
that  he  might  have  said  jostled  in  his  mind.  **Very 
pleased  to  'a  seen  you.  Hope  you  're  in  good  health 
at  the  present  time  of  speaking.  Don't  let  me 
intrude  on  you.  We  Ve  all  a-got  to  die  some  time 
or  other!"  They  remained  unuttered.  Making  a 
vague  movement  of  his  skinny  hand,  he  walked 
feebly  but  quickly  to  the  door.  When  he  stood  but 
half-way  within  the  room,  he  made  his  final  effort. 

**I  'm  not  a-goin  to  say  nothing,"  he  said; — 
**  that  'd  be  superlative!  I  wish  you  a  good-morning." 

Outside  he  waited  a  second,  then  grasped  the 
bannister. 

**For  all  he  sets  so  quiet,  they  Ve  done  him  no 
good  in  that  place,"  he  thought.  **Them  eyes  of 
his!"  And  slowly  he  descended,  full  of  a  sort  of  very 
deep  surprise.  "I  misjudged  of  him,"  he  was  think- 
ing; **he  never  was  nothing  but  a  'armless  human 
being.  We  all  has  our  predijuices — I  misjudged  of 
him.  They  We  broke  his  'eart  between  'em — that 
they  have." 

The  silence  in  the  room  continued  after  his  de- 
parture. But  when  the  little  boy  had  gone  to  school, 
Hughs  rose  and  lay  down  on  the  bed.  He  rested 
there,  unmoving,  with  his  face  towards  the  wall, 
his  arms  clasped  round  his  head  to  comfort  it.  The 
seamstress,  stealing  about  her  avocations,  paused 
now  and  then  to  look  at  him.     If  he  had  raged  at 


364  Fraternity 

her,  if  he  had  raged  at  everything,  it  would  not 
have  been  vso  terrifying  as  this  utter  silence,  which 
passed  her  comprehension — this  silence  as  of  a  man 
flung  by  the  sea  against  a  rock,  and  pinned  there 
with  the  life  crushed  out  of  him.  All  her  inarticulate 
longing,  now  that  her  baby  was  gone,  to  be  close 
to  something  in  her  grey  life,  to  pass  the  unfranchise 
able  barrier  dividing  her  from  the  world,  seemed  to 
well  up,  to  flow  against  this  wall  of  silence  and 
recoil. 

Twice  or  three  times  she  addressed  him  timidly 
by  name,  or  made  some  trivial  remark.  He  did  not 
answer,  as  though  in  very  truth  he  had  been  the 
shadow  of  a  man  lying  there.  And  the  injustice  of 
this  silence  seemed  to  her  so  terrible.  Was  she  not 
his  wife?  Had  she  not  borne  him  five,  and  toiled 
to  keep  him  from  that  girl.'*  Was  it  her  fault  if 
she  had  made  his  life  a  hell  with  her  jealousy,  as 
he  had  cried  out  that  morning  before  he  went  for 
her,  and  was  **put  away"?  He  was  her  **man." 
It  had  been  her  right — nay,  more,  her  duty! 

And  still  he  lay  there  silent.  From  the  narrow 
street  where  no  traffic  passed,  the  cries  of  a  coster 
and  distant  whistlings  mounted  through  the  un- 
wholesome air.  Some  sparrows  in  the  eave  were 
chirruping  incessantly.  The  little  sandy  house-cat 
had  stolen  in,  and,  crouched  against  the  door-post, 
was  fastening  her  eyes  on  the  plate  which  held  the 
remnants  of  the  fish.  The  seamstress  bowed  her 
lorehead  to  the  flowers  on  the  table;  unable  any 
longer  to  bear  the  mystery  of  this  silence,  she 
wept.  But  the  dark  figure  on  the  bed  only  pressed 
his  arms  closer    round   his   head,   as  though  there 


The  Home-Coming  of  Hughs       365 

were  within  him  a  living  death  passing  the  speech 
of  men. 

The  little  sandy  cat,  creeping  across  the  floor, 
fixed  its  claws  in  the  backbone  of  the  fish,  and  drew 
it  beneath  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  DUEL 

BIANCA  did  not  see  her  husband  after  their 
return  together  from  the  Round  Pond.  She 
dined  out  that  evening,  and  in  the  morning  avoided 
any  interview.  When  Hilary^s  luggage  was  brought 
down  and  the  cab  summoned,  she  slipped  up  to 
take  shelter  in  her  room.  Presently  the  sound  of  his 
footsteps  coming  along  the  passage  stopped  outside 
her  door.    He  tapped.    She  did  not  answer. 

Good-bye  would  be  a  mockery!  Let  him  go  with 
the  words  unsaid!  And  as  though  the  thought  had 
found  its  way  through  the  closed  door,  she  heard 
his  footsteps  recede  again.  She  saw  him  presently 
go  out  to  the  cab  with  his  head  bent  down,  saw  him 
stoop  and  pat  Miranda.  Hot  tears  sprang  into  her 
eyes.     She  heard  the  cab-wheels  roll  away. 

The  heart  is  like  the  face  of  an  Eastern  woman — 
warm  and  glowing,  behind  swathe  on  swathe  of 
fabric.  At  each  fresh  touch  from  the  fingers  of  life, 
some  new  comer,  some  hidden  curve  or  angle,  comes 
into  view,  to  be  seen  last  of  all — perhaps  never  to 
be  seen — by  the  one  who  owns  them. 

When  the  cab  had  driven  away  there  came  into 
Bianca's  heart  a  sense  of  the  irreparable,  and,  mys- 
teriously entwined  with  that  arid  ache,  a  sort  of 
bitter  pity.     What  would  happen  to  this  wretched 

girl  now  that  he  was  gone  ?    Would  she  go  completely 

366 


The  Duel  367 

to  the  bad — till  she  became  one  of  those  poor  creatures 
like  the  figure  in  The  Shadow^  who  stood  beneath 
lamp-posts  in  the  streets?  Out  of  this  speculation, 
which  was  bitter  as  the  taste  of  aloes,  there  came 
to  her  a  craving  for  some  palliative,  some  sweetness, 
some  expression  of  that  instinct  of  fellow-feeling 
deep  in  each  human  breast,  however  disharmonic. 
But  even  with  that  craving  was  mingled  the  itch  to 
justify  herself,  and  prove  that  she  could  rise  above 
jealousy. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  little  model's  lodging. 

A  child  admitted  her  into  the  bleak  passage  that 
served  for  hall.  The  strange  medley  of  emotions 
passing  through  Bianca's  breast  while  she  stood 
outside  the  girl's  door  did  not  show  in  her  face, 
which  wore  its  customary  restrained,  half-mocking 
look. 

The  little  model's  voice  faintly  said:   "Come  in." 

The  room  was  in  disorder,  as  though  soon  to  be 
cieserted.  A  closed  and  corded  trunk  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  floor;  the  bed,  stripped  of  clothing,  lay 
disclosed  in  all  the  barrenness  of  discoloured  ticking. 
The  china  utensils  of  the  washstand  were  turned  head 
downwards.  Beside  that  washstand  the  little  model, 
with  her  hat  on — the  hat  with  the  purplish-pink  roses 
and  the  little  peacock's  feather — stood  in  the  struck, 
shrinking  attitude  of  one  who,  coming  forward  in  the 
expectation  of  a  kiss,  has  received  a  blow. 

"  You  are  leaving  here,  then?"  Bianca  said  quietly. 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  murmured. 

"Don't  you  like  this  part?  Is  it  too  far  from 
your  work?" 

Again  the  little  model  whispered:   "  Yes." 


368  Fraternity 

Bianca's  eyes  travelled  slowly  over  the  blue  be- 
flowered  walls  and  rust-red  doors;  through  the 
dusty  closeness  of  this  dismantled  room  a  rank  scent 
of  musk  and  violets  rose,  as  though  a  cheap  essence 
had  been  scattered  as  libation.  A  small  empty 
scent-bottle  stood  on  the  shabby  looking-glass. 

"Have  you  found  new  lodgings?'* 

The  little  model  edged  closer  to  the  window.  A 
stealthy  watchfulness  was  creeping  into  her  shrinking, 
dazed  face. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  know  where  I  'm  going." 

Obeying  a  sudden  impulse  to  see  more  clearly, 
Bianca  lifted  her  veil.  "I  came  to  tell  you,'*  she 
said,  "that  I  shall  always  be  ready  to  help  you." 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  but  suddenly  through 
her  black  lashes  she  stole  a  look  upward  at  her 
visitor.  "Can  you,''  it  seemed  to  say,  ^' you — help 
me?  Oh,  no;  I  think  not!"  And  as  though  she  had 
been  stung  by  that  glance,  Bianca  said  with  deadly 
slowness: 

"  It  is  my  business,  of  course,  entirely,  now  that 
Mr.  Dallison  has  gone  abroad." 

The  little  model  received  this  saying  with  a  quiver- 
ing jerk.  It  might  have  been  an  arrow  transfixing 
her  white  throat.  For  a  moment  she  seemed  almost 
about  to  fall,  but,  gripping  the  window-sill,  held 
herself  erect.  Her  eyes,  like  an  animal's  in  pain, 
darted  here,  there,  everywhere,  then  rested  on  her 
visitor's  breast,  quite  motionless.  This  stare,  which 
seemed  to  see  nothing,  but  to  be  doing,  as  it  were, 
some  mortal  calculation,  was  uncanny.  Colour 
came   gradually   back  into   her  lips  and  eyes  and 


The  Duel  369 

cheeks ;  she  seemed  to  have  succeeded  in  her  calcula- 
tion, to  be  reviving  from  that  stab. 

And  suddenly  Bianca  understood.  This  was  the 
meaning  of  the  packed  trunk,  the  dismantled  room. 
He  was  going  to  take  her,  after  all ! 

In  the  turmoil  of  this  discovery  two  words  alone 
escaped  her: 

"I  see!'' 

They  were  enough.  The  girl's  face  at  once  lost 
all  trace  of  its  look  of  mortal  calculation,  brightened, 
became  guilty,  and  from  guilty  sullen. 

The  antagonism  of  all  the  long  past  months  was 
now  declared  between  these  two — Bianca's  pride 
could  no  longer  conceal,  the  girl's  submissiveness 
no  longer  obscure  it.  They  stood  like  duellists,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  trunk — ^that  common,  brown- 
japanned,  tin  trunk,  corded  with  rope.  Bianca 
looked  at  it. 

*' You,"  she  said,  "and  he?  Ha,  ha;  ha,  ha!  Ha, 
ha,  ha!" 

Against  that  cruel  laughter — more  poignant  than 
a  hundred  homilies  on  caste,  a  thousand  scornful 
words — the  little  model  literally  could  not  stand; 
she  sat  down  in  the  low  chair  where  she  had  evidently 
been  sitting  to  watch  the  street.  But  as  a  taste  of 
blood  will  infuriate  a  hound,  so  her  own  laughter 
seemed  to  bereave  Bianca  of  all  restraint. 

"  What  do  you  imagine  he  's  taking  you  for,  girl  ? 
Only  out  of  pity!  It  's  not  exactly  the  emotion  to 
live  on  in  exile.  In  exile — but  that  you  do  not 
understand!" 

The  little  model  staggered  to  her  feet  again.  Her 
face  had  grown  painfully  red. 

a4 


37©  Fraternity 

"He  wants  me!**  she  said. 

"  Wants  ycu  ?  As  he  wants  his  dinner.  And  when 
he  *s  eaten  it — ^what  then?  No,  of  course  he  11  never 
abandon  you;  his  conscience  is  too  tender.  But 
you  '11  be  round  his  neck — like  this!'*  Bianca 
raised  her  arms,  looped,  and  dragged  them  slowly 
down,  as  a  mermaid's  arms  drag  at  a  drowning 
sailor. 

The  little  model  stammered:  "I'll  do  what  he 
tells  me!     I  *11  do  what  he  tells  me!** 

Bianca  stood  silent,  looking  at  the  girl,  whose 
heaving  breast  and  little  peacock's  feather,  whose 
small  round  hands  twisting  in  front  of  her,  and  scent 
about  her  clothes,  a^  seemed  an  offence. 

"  And  do  you  suppose  that  he  '11  tell  you  what  he 
wants?  Do  you  imagine  he'll  have  the  necessary 
brutality  to  get  rid  of  you?  He  '11  think  himself 
bound  to  keep  you  till  you  leave  him,  as  I  suppose 
you  will  some  day!" 

The  girl  dropped  her  hands.  "  I  *11  never  leave 
him — ^never!"  she  cried  out  passionately. 

"Then  Heaven  help  him!"  said  Bianca. 

The  little  model's  eyes  seemed  to  lose  all  pupil, 
like  two  chicory  flowers  that  have  no  dark  centres. 
Through  them,  all  that  she  was  feeling  struggled  to 
find  an  outlet;  but,  too  deep  for  words,  those  things 
would  not  pass  her  lips,  utterly  unused  to  express 
emotion.     She  could  only  stammer: 

"I'm  not — I'm  not — I  will "  and  press  her 

hands  again  to  her  breast. 

Bianca's  lip  curled. 

"I  see;  you  imagine  yourself  capable  of  sacrifice. 
Well,  you  have  your  chance.    Take  it!"    She  pointed 


The  Duel  371 

to  the  corded  trunk.  "  Now  's  your  time ;  you  have 
only  to  disappear!*' 

The  little  model  shrank  back  against  the  window- 
sill.  "He  wants  me!'*  she  muttered.  "I  know  he 
wants  me." 

Bianca  bit  her  lips  till  the  blood  came. 

"Your  idea  of  sacrifice,"  she  said,  "is  perfect!  If 
you  went  now,  in  a  month's  time  he  'd  never  think 
of  you  again." 

The  girl  gulped.  There  was  something  so  pitiful 
in  the  movements  of  her  hands  that  Bianca  turned 
away.  She  stood  for  several  seconds  staring  at  the 
door,  then,  turning  round  again,  said: 

"Well?" 

But  the  girl's  whole  face  had  changed.  AH  tear- 
stained,  indeed,  she  had  already  masked  it  with  a 
sort  of  immovable  stolidity. 

Bianca  went  swiftly  up  to  the  trunk. 

"  You  shall  r'  she  said.    "  Take  that  thing  and  go ! " 

The  little  model  did  not  move. 

"So  you  won't?" 

The  girl  trembled  violently  all  over.  She  moistened 
her  lips,  tried  to  speak,  failed,  again  moistened  them, 
and  this  time  murmured:  "I'll  only — I'll  only — ■ 
if  he  tells  me!" 

"So  you  still  imagine  he  will  tell  you!" 

The  little  model  merely  repeated:  "I  won't — I 
won't  do  anything  without  he  tells  me!" 

Bianca  laughed.    "  Why,  it 's  like  a  dog!"  she  said. 

But  the  girl  had  turned  abruptly  to  the  window. 
Her  lips  were  parted.  She  was  shrinking,  fluttering, 
trembling  at  what  she  saw.  She  was  indeed  like  a 
spaniel  dog  who  sees  her  master  coming.     Bianca 


372  Fraternity 

had  no  need  of  being  told  that  Hilary  was  outside. 
She  went  into  the  passage  and  opened  the  front-door. 

He  was  coming  up  the  steps,  his  face  worn  like 
that  of  a  man  in  fever,  and  at  the  sight  of  his  wife 
he  stood  quite  still,  looking  into  her  face. 

Without  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid,  without  the 
faintest  trace  of  emotion,  or  the  slightest  sign  that 
she  knew  him  to  be  there,  Bianca  passed  and  slowly 
walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XL 

FINISH  OF  THE  COMEDY 

THOSE  who  may  have  seen  Hilary  driving  towards 
the  little  modeFs  lodgings  saw  one  who,  by  a 
fixed  red  spot  in  either  cheek,  and  the  over- 
compression  of  his  quivering  lips,  betrayed  the 
presence  of  that  animality  which  underiies  even  the 
most  cultivated  men. 

After  eighteen  hours  of  the  purgatory  of  indecision, 
he  had  not  so  much  decided  to  pay  that  promised 
visit  on  which  hung  the  future  of  two  lives,  as  allowed 
himself  to  be  borne  towards  the  girl. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  passage  to  see  him  after 
he  had  passed  Bianca  in  the  doorway,  but  it  was 
with  a  face  darkened  by  the  peculiar  stabbing  look 
of  wotmded  egoism  that  he  entered  the  little  model's 
room. 

The  sight  of  it  coming  so  closely  on  the  struggle 
she  had  just  been  through  was  too  much  for  the 
girl's  self-control. 

Instead  of  going  up  to  him,  she  sat  down  on  the 
corded  trunk  and  began  to  sob.  It  was  the  sobbing 
of  a  child  whose  school-treat  has  been  cancelled, 
of  a  girl  whose  ball-dress  has  not  come  home  in  time. 
It  only  irritated  Hilary,  whose  nerves  had  already 
borne  all  they  could  hear.  He  stood  literally  trem- 
bling, as  though  each  one  of  these  common  little  sobs 
were  a  blow  falling  on  the  drum-skin  of  his  spirit; 

373 


374  Fraternity 

and  through  every  fibre  he  took  in  the  features  of 
the  dusty,  scent-besprinkled  room — the  brown  tin 
trunk,  the  dismantled  bed,  the  rust-red  doors. 

And  he  realised  that  she  had  burned  her  boats  to 
make  it  impossible  for  a  man  of  sensibility  to  disap- 
point her! 

The  little  model  raised  her  face  and  looked  at  him. 
What  she  saw  must  have  been  less  reassuring  even 
than  the  first  sight  had  been,  for  it  stopped  her 
sobbing.  She  rose  and  turned  to  the  window, 
evidently  trying  with  handkerchief  and  powder-puff 
to  repair  the  ravages  caused  by  her  tears;  and  when 
she  had  finished  she  still  stood  there  with  her  back 
to  him.  Her  deep  breathing  made  her  young  form 
quiver  from  her  waist  up  to  the  little  peacock's 
feather  in  her  hat ;  and  with  each  supple  movement 
it  seemed  offering  itself  to  Hilary. 

In  the  street  a  barrel-organ  had  begun  to  play  the 
very  waltz  it  had  played  the  afternoon  when  Mr. 
Stone  had  been  so  ill.  Those  two  were  neither  of 
them  conscious  of  that  tune,  too  absorbed  in  their 
emotions;  and  yet,  quietly,  it  was  bringing  some- 
thing to  the  girl's  figure — like  the  dowering  of  scent 
that  the  sun  brings  to  a  flower.  It  was  bringing  the 
compression  back  to  Hilary's  lips,  the  flush  to  his 
ears  and  cheeks,  as  a  draught  of  wind  will  blow  to 
redness  a  fire  that  has  been  choked.  Without  knowing 
it,  without  sound,  inch  by  inch  he  moved  nearer  to 
her;  and  as  though,  for  all  there  was  no  sign  of  his 
advance,  she  knew  of  it,  she  stayed  utterly  unmoving 
except  for  the  deep  breathing  that  so  stirred  the 
warm  youth  in  her.  In  that  stealthy  progress  was 
the  history  of  life  and  the  mystery  of  sex.    Inch  by 


Finish  of  the  Comedy  375 

inch  he  neared  her;  and  she  swayed,  mesmerising 
his  arms  to  fold  round  her  thus  poised,  as  if  she 
must  fall  backward;  mesmerising  him  to  forget 
that  there  was  an)rthing  there,  anything  in  all  the 
world,  but  just  her  young  form  waiting  for  him — 
nothing  but  that! 

The  barrel-organ  stopped;  the  spell  had  broken! 
She  turned  round  to  him.  As  a  wind  obscures  with 
grey  wrinkles  the  still  green  waters  of  enchantment 
wherein  some  mortal  has  been  gazing,  so  Hilary's 
reason  suddenly  swept  across  the  situation,  and 
showed  it  once  more  as  it  was.  Quick  to  mark  every 
shade  that  passed  across  his  face,  the  girl  made  as 
though  she  would  again  burst  into  tears;  then,  since 
tears  had  been  so  useless,  she  pressed  her  hand  over 
her  eyes. 

Hilary  looked  at  that  round,  not  too  cleanly 
hand.  He  could  see  her  watching  him  between  her 
fingers.  It  was  uncanny,  almost  horrible,  like  the 
sight  of  a  cat  watching  a  bird ;  and  he  stood  appalled 
at  the  terrible  reality  of  his  position,  at  the  sight 
of  his  own  future  with  this  girl,  with  her  traditions, 
customs,  life,  the  thousand  and  one  things  that  he 
did  not  know  about  her,  that  he  would  have  to  live 
with  if  he  once  took  her.  A  minute  passed,  which 
seemed  eternity,  for  into  it  was  condensed  every 
force  of  her  long  pursuit,  her  instinctive  clutching  at 
something  that  she  felt  to  be  security,  her  reaching 
upwards,  her  twining  round  him. 

Conscious  of  all  this,  held  back  by  that  vision  of 
his  future,  yet  whipped  towards  her  by  his  senses, 
Hilary  swayed  like  a  drunken  man.  And  suddenly 
she  sprang  at  him,  wreathed  her  arms  round  his  neck, 


376  Fraternity 

and  fastened  her  mouth  to  his.  The  touch  of  her 
lips  was  moist  and  hot.  The  scent  of  stale  violet 
powder  came  from  her,  warmed  by  her  humanity. 
It  penetrated  to  Hilary's  heart.  He  started  back  in 
sheer  physical  revolt. 

Thus  repulsed,  the  girl  stood  rigid,  her  breast 
heaving,  her  eyes  unnaturally  dilated,  her  mouth 
still  loosened  by  the  kiss.  Snatching  from  his  pocket 
a  roll  of  notes,  Hilary  flung  them  on  the  bed. 

"I  can't  take  you!"  he  almost  groaned.  **It  's 
madness!  it  's  impossible!"  And  he  went  out  into 
his  cab.  An  immense  time  seemed  to  pass  before  it 
began  to  move.  It  started  at  last,  and  Hilary  sat 
back  in  it,  his  hands  clenched,  as  still  as  a  dead  man. 

His  mortified  face  was  recognised  by  the  landlady, 
returning  from  her  morning's  visit  to  the  shops.  The 
gentleman  looked,  she  thought,  as  if  he  had  received 
bad  news!  She  not  unnaturally  connected  his  ap- 
pearance with  her  lodger.  Tapping  on  the  girl's 
door,  and  receiving  no  answer,  she  went  in. 

The  little  model  was  lying  on  the  dismantled  bed, 
pressing  her  face  into  the  blue  and  white  ticking  of 
the  bolster.  Her  shoulders  shook,  and  a  sound  of 
smothered  sobbing  came  from  her.  The  landlady 
stood  staring  silently. 

Coming  of  Cornish  chapel-going  stock,  she  had  never 
liked  this  girl,  her  instinct  telling  her  that  she  was  one 
for  whom  life  had  already  been  too  much.  Those  for 
whom  life  had  so  early  been  too  much,  she  knew, 
were  always  **ones  for  pleasure!"  Her  experience  of 
village  life  had  enabled  her  to  construct  the  little 
model's  story — that  very  simple,  very  frequent  little 
story.     Sometimes,  indeed,  trouble  of  that  sort  was 


Finish  of  the  Comedy  377 

soon  over  and  forgotten;  but  sometimes,  if  the 
young  man  did  n't  do  the  right  thing  by  her,  and 

the  girl's  folk  took  it  hardly,  well,  then !     So 

had  run  the  reasoning  of  this  good  woman.  Being 
of  the  same  class,  she  had  looked  at  her  lodger  from 
the  first  without  obliquity  of  vision. 

But  seeing  her  now  apparently  so  overwhelmed, 
and  having  something  soft  and  warm  down  beneath 
her  granitic  face  and  hungry  eyes,  she  touched  her 
on  the  back. 

**Come  now!"  she  said;  "you  mustn't  take  on! 
What  is  it?" 

The  little  model  shook  off  the  hand  as  a  passionate 
child  shakes  itself  free  of  consolation.  **Let  me 
alone ! ' '  she  muttered. 

The  landlady  drew  back.  "  Has  any  one  done  you 
a  harm?"  she  said. 

The  little  model  shook  her  head. 

Baffled  by  this  dumb  grief,  the  landlady  was  silent ; 
then,  with  the  stolidity  of  those  whose  lives  are  one 
long  wrestling  with  fortune,  she  muttered: 

"I  don't  like  to  see  any  one  cry  like  that!" 

And  finding  that  the  girl  remained  obstinately 
withdrawn  from  sight  or  sympathy,  she  moved 
towards  the  door. 

"Well,"  she  said,  with  ironical  compassion,  "if 
you  want  me,  I  '11  be  in  the  kitchen." 

The  little  model  remained  lying  on  her  bed.  Every 
now  and  then  she  gulped,  like  a  child  flung  down 
on  the  grass  apart  from  its  comrades,  trying  to 
swallow  down  its  rage,  trying  to  bury  in  the  earth 
its  little  black  moment  of  despair.  Slowly  those 
gtilps  grew  fewer,  feebler,  and  at  last  died  away. 


378  Fraternity 

She  sat  up,  sweeping  Hilary's  bundle  of  notes,  on 
which  she  had  been  lying,  to  the  floor. 

At  sight  of  that  bundle  she  broke  out  afresh, 
flinging  herself  down  sideways  with  her  cheek  on  the 
wet  bolster;  and  for  some  time  after  her  sobs  had 
ceased  again  still  lay  there.  At  last  she  rose  and 
dragged  herself  over  to  the  looking-glass,  scrutinising 
her  streaked,  discoloured  face,  the  stains  in  the 
cheeks,  the  swollen  eyelids,  the  marks  beneath  her 
eyes,  and  listlessly  she  tidied  herself.  Then,  sitting 
down  on  the  brown  tin  trunk,  she  picked  the  bundle 
of  notes  off  the  floor.  They  gave  forth  a  dry  peculiar 
crackle.  Fifteen  ten-pound  notes — all  Hilary's  travel- 
ling money.  Her  eyes  opened  wider  and  wider  as 
she  counted;  and  tears,  quite  suddenly,  rolled  down 
on  to  those  thin  slips  of  paper. 

Then  slowly  she  undid  her  dress,  and  forced  them 
down  till  they  rested,  with  nothing  but  her  vest 
between  them  and  the  quivering  warm  flesh  which 
hid  her  heart. 


CHAPTER   XLI 

THE  HOUSB  OF  HA.RMONY 

AT  half-past  ten  that  evening  Stephen  walked  up 
the    stone-flagged    pathway   of    his    brother's 
house, 

*'Can  I  see  Mrs.  Hilary?'' 

**Mr.  Hilary  went  abroad  this  morning,  sir,  and 
Mrs.  Hilary  has  not  yet  come  in." 

"Will  you  give  her  this  letter?  No,  I  11  wait.  I 
suppose  I  can  wait  for  her  in  the  garden?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!" 

"Very  well." 

"  I  '11  leave  the  door  open,  sir,  in  case  you  want  to 
come  in." 

Stephen  walked  across  to  the  rustic  bench  and 
sat  down.  He  stared  gloomily  through  the  dusk  at 
his  patent-leather  boots,  and  every  now  and  then  he 
flicked  his  evening  trousers  with  the  letter.  Across 
the  dark  garden,  where  the  boughs  hung  soft,  un- 
moved by  the  wind,  the  light  from  Mr.  Stone's  open 
window  flowed  out  in  a  pale  river;  moths,  bom  of 
the  sudden  heat,  were  fluttering  up  this  river  to  its 
source. 

Stephen  looked  irritably  at  the  figure  of  Mr.  Stone, 
which  could  be  seen,  bowed  and  utterly  still,  beside 
his  desk;  so,  by  lifting  the  spy-hole  thatch  one  may 
see  a  convict  in  his  cell  stand  gazing  at  his  work, 
without  movement,  numb  with  solitude. 

379 


380  Fraternity 

"He's  getting  awfully  broken  up,"  thought 
Stephen.  "Poor  old  chap!  His  ideas  are  killing 
him.  They  're  not  human  nature,  never  will  be." 
Again  he  flicked  his  trousers  with  the  letter,  as  though 
that  document  emphasised  the  fact.  "I  can't  help 
being  sorry  for  the  sublime  old  idiot!*' 

He  rose,  the  better  to  see  his  father-in-law's  un- 
conscious figure.  It  looked  as  lifeless  and  as  cold 
as  though  Mr.  Stone  had  followed  some  thought 
below  the  ground,  and  left  his  body  standing  there 
to  await  his  return.  Its  appearance  oppressed 
Stephen 

"You  might  set  the  house  on  fire,"  he  thought; 
"he  *d  never  notice." 

Mr.  Stone's  figure  moved;  the  sound  of  a  long 
sigh  came  out  to  Stephen  in  the  windless  garden.  He 
turned  his  eyes  away,  with  the  sudden  feeling  that 
it  was  not  the  thing  to  watch  the  old  chap  like  this; 
then,  getting  up,  he  went  indoors.  In  his  brother's 
study  he  stood  turning  over  the  knick-knacks  on  the 
writing  table. 

"I  warned  Hilary  that  he  was  burning  his  fingers," 
he  thought. 

At  the  sound  of  the  latch-key  he  went  back  to  the 
hall. 

However  much  he  had  secretly  disapproved  of 
her  from  the  beginning,  because  she  had  always 
seemed  to  him  such  an  uncomfortable  and  tantalising 
person,  Stephen  was  impressed  that  night  by  the 
haunting  unhappiness  of  Bianca's  face;  as  if  it  had 
been  suddenly  disclosed  to  him  that  she  could  not 
help  herself.  This  was  disconcerting,  being,  in  a 
sense,  a  disorderly  way  of  seeing  things. 


The  House  of  Harmony         381 

"You look  tired,  B./'  he  said.  **I  'm  sorry,  but  I 
thought  it  better  to  bring  this  round  to-night/* 

Bianca  glanced  at  the  letter. 

"It  is  to  you,*'  she  said.  **I  don*t  wish  to  read  it, 
thank  you.** 

Stephen  compressed  his  lips. 

"  But  I  wish  you  to  hear  it,  please,"  he  said.  **I  11 
read  it  out,  if  you  '11  allow  me. 

•*  Charing  Cross  Station. 
**  'Dear  Stevib, 

'*  *I  told  you  yesterday  morning  that  I  was  going 
abroad  alone.  Afterwards  I  changed  my  mind — I 
meant  to  take  her.  I  went  to  her  lodgings  for  the 
purpose.  I  have  lived  too  long  amongst  sentiments 
for  such  a  piece  of  reality  as  that.  Class  has  saved 
me,  it  has  triumphed  over  my  most  primitive  instincts. 

"  'I  am  going  alone — back  to  my  sentiments.  No 
slight  has  been  placed  on  Bianca;  but  my  married 
life  having  become  a  mockery,  I  shall  not  return 
to  it.  The  following  address  will  find  me,  and  I  shall 
ask  you  presently  to  send  on  my  household  gods. 

"  'Please  let  Bianca  know  the  substance  of  this 
letter. 

"  •Ever  your  affectionate  brother, 

**  'Hilary  Dallison.*" 

With  a  frown  Stephen  folded  up  the  letter,  and 
restored  it  to  his  breast  pocket. 

It  *s  more  bitter  than  I  thought,*'  he  reflected; 
and  yet  he  's  done  the  only  possible  thing." 
Bianca  was  leaning  her  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece 
with  her  face  turned  to  the  wall.    Her  silence  irritated 


4< 


382  Fraternity 

Stephen,  whose  loyalty  to  his  brother  longed  to  find 
a  vent. 

"I  'm  very  much  relieved,  of  course,"  he  said  at 
last.     **  It  would  have  been  fatal." 

She  did  not  move,  and  Stephen  became  increasingly 
aware  that  this  was  a  most  awkward  matter  to 
touch  on. 

"Of  course — "  he  began  again:    "But,  B.,  I  do 

think   you — ^rather — I   mean "      And   again    he 

stopped  before  her  utter  silence,  her  utter  immobility. 
Then,  unable  to  go  away  without  having  in  some 
sort  expressed  his  loyalty  to  Hilary,  he  tried  once 
more:  "Hilary  is  the  kindest  man  I  know.  It's 
not  his  fault  if  he  *s  out  of  "^^louch  with  life — ^if  he  's 
not  fit  to  deal  with  things.     He  's  negative!'' 

And,  having  thus  in  a  single  word,  somewhat  to 
his  own  astonishment^,  described  his  brother,  he  held 
out  his  hand. 

The  hand  which  Bianca  placed  in  it  was  feverishly 
hot.     Stephen  felt  suddenly  compimctious. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  stammered,  "about  the 
whole  thing.     I  'm  awfully  sorry  for  you " 

Bianca  drew  back  her  hand. 

With  a  little  shrug  Stephen  turned  away. 

"What  are  you  to  do  with  women  like  that?"  was 
his  thought,  and  saying  dryly,  "Good-night,  B.,"  he 
went. 

For  some  time  Bianca  sat  in  Hilary's  chair.  Then 
by  the  faint  glimmer  coming  through  the  half-open 
door,  she  began  to  wander  round  the  room,  touching 
the  walls,  the  books,  the  prints,  all  the  familiar 
things  among  which  he  had  lived  so  many  years. 

la  that  dim  continual  journey  she   was  like  a 


The  House  of  Harmony         383 

disharmonic  spirit  traversing  the  air  above  where 
its  body  lies. 

The  door  creaked  behind  her.    A  voice  said  sharply: 

"What  are  you  doing  in  this  house?'* 

Mr.  Stone  was  standing  beside  the  bust  of  Socrates. 
Bianca  went  up  to  him. 

"Father!" 

Mr.  Stone  stared.  "It  is  you!  I  thought  it  was  a 
thief!    Where  is  Hilary?'' 

"  Gone  away." 

"Alone?" 

Bianca  bowed  her  head.  "It  is  very  late,  Dad," 
she  whispered. 

Mr.  Stone's  hand  moved  as  though  he  would  have 
stroked  her. 

"The  human  heart,"  he  munntired,  "is  the  tomb 
of  many  feelings." 

Bianca  put  her  arm  round  him. 

"You  must  go  to  bed.  Dad";  she  said,  trying  to 
get  him  to  the  door,  for  in  her  heart  something 
seemed  giving  way.  Mr.  Stone  stumbled;  the  door 
swung  to;  the  room  was  plxmged  in  darkness.  A 
hand  cold  as  ice  touched  her  cheek.  With  all  her 
force  she  stifled  a  scream. 

"I  am  here,"  Mr.  Stone  said. 

His  hand,  wandering  downwards  brushed  her 
shoulder,  and  she  seized  it  with  her  own  burning 
hand.  Thus  linked  they  groped  their  way  out  into 
the  passage  towards  his  room. 

"Good-night,  dear,"  Bianca  murmured. 

By  the  light  of  his  now  open  door  Mr.  Stone  seemed 
to  try  and  see  her  face,  but  she  would  not  show  it 
him.     Closing  the  door  gently  she  stole  up-stairs. 


384  Fraternity 

Sitting  down  in  her  bedroom  by  the  open  window^ 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  room  was  full  of  people — • 
her  nerves  were  so  unstrung.  It  was  as  if  walls  had 
not  the  power  this  night  to  exclude  human  presences. 
Moving,  or  motionless,  now  distinct,  then  covered 
suddenly  by  the  thick  veil  of  some  material  object, 
they  circled  round  her  quiet  figure,  lying  back  in 
the  chair  with  shut  eyes.  These  disharmonic  shadows 
flitting  in  the  room  made  a  stir  like  the  rubbing  of 
dry  straw  or  the  hum  of  bees  among  clover  stalks. 
When  she  sat  up  they  vanished,  and  the  sounds 
became  the  distant  din  of  homing  traffic;  but  the 
moment  she  closed  her  eyes,  her  visitors  again 
began  to  steal  roimd  her  with  that  dry,  mysterious 
hum. 

She  fell  asleep  presently,  and  woke  with  a  start. 
There,  in  a  glimmer  of  pale  light,  stood  the  little 
model,  as  in  the  fatal  picture  Bianca  had  painted  of 
her.  Her  face  was  powder  white,  with  shadows 
beneath  the  eyes.  Breath  seemed  coming  through 
her  parted  lips,  just. touched  with  colour.  In  her 
hat  lay  the  tiny  peacock's  feather  beside  the  two 
purplish-pink  roses.  A  scent  came  from  her,  too — 
but  faint,  as  ever  was  the  scent  of  chicory  flower. 
How  long  had  she  been  standing  there?  Bianca 
started  to  her  feet,  and  as  she  rose  the  vision  van- 
ished. 

She  went  towards  the  spot.  There  was  nothing  in 
that  comer  but  moonlight;  the  scent  she  had  per- 
ceived was  merely  that  of  the  trees  drifting  in. 

But  so  vivid  had  that  vision  been  that  she  stood 
at  the  window,  panting  for  air,  passing  her  hand 
again  and  again  across  her  eyes. 


The  House  of  Harmony         385 

Outside  over  the  dark  gardens,  the  moon  hung  full 
and  almost  golden.  Its  honey-pale  light  filtered 
down  on  every  little  shape  of  tree,  and  leaf,  and 
sleeping  flower.  That  soft,  vibrating  radiance  seemed 
to  have  woven  all  into  one  mysterious  whole,  stilling 
disharmony,  so  that  each  little  separate  shape  had 
no  meaning  to  itself. 

Bianca  looked  long  at  the  rain  of  moonlight  falling 
on  the  earth's  carpet,  like  a  covering  shower  of 
blossom  which  bees  have  sucked  and  spilled.  Then, 
below  her,  out  through  candescent  space,  she  saw  a 
shadow  dart  forth  along  the  grass,  and  to  her  fright 
a  voice  rose,  tremulous  and  clear,  seeming  to  seek 
enfranchisement  beyond  the  barrier  of  the  dark  trees: 
"My  brain  is  clouded.  Great  Universe!  I  cannot 
write !  I  can  no  longer  discover  to  my  brothers  that 
they  are  one.  I  am  not  worthy  to  stay  here.  Let 
me  pass  into  You,  and  die!*' 

Bianca  saw  her  father's  fragile  arms  stretch  out 
into  the  night  through  the  sleeves  of  his  white  gar- 
ment, as  though  expecting  to  be  received  at  once  into 
the  Universal  Brotherhood  of  the  thin  air. 

There  ensued  a  moment,  when,  by  magic,  every 
little  dissonance  in  all  the  town  seemed  blended  into 
a  harmony  of  silence,  as  it  might  be  the  very  death 
of  self  upon  the  earth. 

Then,  breaking  that  trance,  Mr.  Stone's  voice  rose 
again,  trembling  out  into  the  night,  as  though  blown 
through  a  reed. 

"Brothers!"  he  said. 

Behind  the  screen  of  lilac  bushes  at  the  gate 
Bianca  saw  the  dark  helmet  of  a  policeman.  He 
stood  there  staring  steadily  in  the  direction  of  that 


$86  Fraternity 

voice.  Raising  his  lantern,  he  flashed  it  into  tvery 
comer  of  the  garden,  searching  for  those  who  had 
been  addressed.  Satisfied,  apparently,  that  no  one 
was  there,  he  moved  it  to  right  and  left,  lowered  it 
to  the  level  of  his  breast,  and  walked  slowly  on. 


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